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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
And Jack to coax
This Nessy to marry him; and little jokes—
And a bit cheerfuller; but wudn' consent;
And—“Oh, I can't! O Jack, I can't!”
And the cruel it was of him to persist,
And shiver, and hide her head in his breast.
And never no forrader, and Harry,
The dooiney-molla? Of coorse, to marry,
And to marry at once—“What capers! blow it!”
Marry away! how the deuce would she know it?
“Chance it!” says Harry, “chance it!”—“Take care,”
Says Nessy, “what you're talkin' there!
This strong wutchin' is hard to clane
Urrov things; it gets in the grain,
The very subjec's, lek no bleachin' 'll fly it,
Nor nothin' else won't purify it.
It's all about in the fields and the bushes,
You'd think you could see it among the rushes,
Creepin', crawlin', like a blue mist,
Like the breath of some spir't.” And she took and kissed
Poor Jack, that looked lek rather onaisy,
I tell ye. But Harry jumped like crazy—
“You're right,” he says, “I'm feelin' it . . . what?
All round me,” he says; “it's cowld and it's hot,
And it's stickin' all over, like these webs,” he says,
“That's spun in the air! I'll cut urrov this,”
Says Harry—“I'll cut . . . I will though!” and off,
That Nessy cudn' help but laugh—
Poor sowl!
This Nessy to marry him; and little jokes—
And a bit cheerfuller; but wudn' consent;
And—“Oh, I can't! O Jack, I can't!”
And the cruel it was of him to persist,
And shiver, and hide her head in his breast.
And never no forrader, and Harry,
The dooiney-molla? Of coorse, to marry,
And to marry at once—“What capers! blow it!”
Marry away! how the deuce would she know it?
“Chance it!” says Harry, “chance it!”—“Take care,”
Says Nessy, “what you're talkin' there!
This strong wutchin' is hard to clane
Urrov things; it gets in the grain,
The very subjec's, lek no bleachin' 'll fly it,
Nor nothin' else won't purify it.
It's all about in the fields and the bushes,
You'd think you could see it among the rushes,
Creepin', crawlin', like a blue mist,
Like the breath of some spir't.” And she took and kissed
Poor Jack, that looked lek rather onaisy,
I tell ye. But Harry jumped like crazy—
“You're right,” he says, “I'm feelin' it . . . what?
All round me,” he says; “it's cowld and it's hot,
And it's stickin' all over, like these webs,” he says,
“That's spun in the air! I'll cut urrov this,”
Says Harry—“I'll cut . . . I will though!” and off,
That Nessy cudn' help but laugh—
Poor sowl!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |