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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
So that's the way his countenance fell
Lek you'll obsarve before this gel—
Remindin' me of Peter though,
And Jesus to look, and the cock to crow;
But cussed did Peter, but went out in the rain,
And wept bitterly, it's sayin'.
Yes, I've seen some of your touch-me-nots
Of Pazons, machine-made Pazons—lots!
Castin's o' Pazons, that moulded and squared,
Blackleaded and polished, that how are they r'ared
I don't know in my senses, no more till I'd know
How a stove 'd be r'arin'—toe to toe!
Aw, beautiful! but r'ared they ar'n',
But that prim and that puffeck the divil dar'n'
Come nigh them, it's lek. And they never done wrong,
And they never done right . . . ding-dong, ding-dong!
Ah, my men! when I'll die, when I'll die!
Who'll meet me yandhar up in the sky?
Who'll hould me theer that I can stand?
Who'll take my hand? who'll take my hand
Afore all that glory? Not one of them—
No, no! but him! but him! but him!
Lek you'll obsarve before this gel—
Remindin' me of Peter though,
And Jesus to look, and the cock to crow;
But cussed did Peter, but went out in the rain,
And wept bitterly, it's sayin'.
Yes, I've seen some of your touch-me-nots
Of Pazons, machine-made Pazons—lots!
Castin's o' Pazons, that moulded and squared,
Blackleaded and polished, that how are they r'ared
I don't know in my senses, no more till I'd know
How a stove 'd be r'arin'—toe to toe!
Aw, beautiful! but r'ared they ar'n',
But that prim and that puffeck the divil dar'n'
Come nigh them, it's lek. And they never done wrong,
And they never done right . . . ding-dong, ding-dong!
588
Who'll meet me yandhar up in the sky?
Who'll hould me theer that I can stand?
Who'll take my hand? who'll take my hand
Afore all that glory? Not one of them—
No, no! but him! but him! but him!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |