University of Virginia Library

NARRATIVE

FO'C'S'LE YARNS AND OTHER TALES

PROLOGUE

SPES ALTERA

FO'C'S'LE YARNS

First Series

DEDICATION

[To sing a song shall please my countrymen]

I
BETSY LEE

II.
CHRISTMAS ROSE

III
CAPTAIN TOM AND CAPTAIN HUGH

IV
TOMMY BIG-EYES

I never knew a man in my life
That had such a darling little wife
As a chap they were callin' Tommy Gellin';
So how he got her is worth the tellin'.
Now Tommy was as shy as a bird:
“Yes” or “No” was the only word
You'd get from Tommy. So every monkey
Thought poor Tommy was a donkey.
But—bless your sowl!—lave Tommy alone!
He'd got a stunnin' head of his own;
And his copies just like copper-plate,
And he'd set to work and cover a slate
Before the rest had done a sum:
But you'd really have thought the fellow was dumb—
He was that silent and bashful, you know;
Not a fool—not him—but lookin' so.
Ugly he was, most desperate,
For all the world like a suckin' skate.
But the eyes! the eyes! Why—blow the fella!
He could spread them out like a rumberella—
You'd have wondered where on earth he got them
Deep dubs of blue light with the black at the bottom—
Basins of light. But it was very seldom
You could see them like that, for he always held them
Straight on his book or whatever he had,
As if he was ashamed, poor lad!
And really they were a most awful size;
And so we were callin' him “Tommy Big-eyes.”
The way that chap was knocked about
Was just a scandal. You hit him a clout
Whenever you saw him—that was the style:
Hit him once, and you'd get him to smile:
Hit him twice, and he'd drop the head;
Hommer away till you'd think he was dead.
And he'd stand like a drum, as if his skin
Was a sheep's, and made for hommerin'.
Then his hair was so thick it was nice to grab it,
And pull it back like skinnin' a rabbit,
Till he'd have to look up, as you may suppose;
And then you could welt him under the nose.
I do believe the cruellest fien's
In the world is a parcel of boys in their teens,
One of them stirrin' up the other.
But still, for all, the divil's mother
Should have looked a little more to the way
The chap was rigged; for it isn't fair play
To dress a lad that's goin' to school
As if he was born to be a fool.
Fancy a frill around his neck!
What in the world could the woman expec'?
And his trousers buttonin' outside
Of his jacket, like these fellows that ride
At the races. Surely, it might occur—
Well, she'd a deal to answer for.
And that's the for this Tommy had
Such girlish ways—oh, very bad!
Just give him a needle and a bit
Of calico, and there he'd sit
In a corner, as happy as a prince,
And the gels goin' on with their imperince,
And—“Are you wantin' a sweetheart, Tommy?”
Poor thing! as innocent as a lammie!
They said, if you'd give him a doll he'd frock it,
But he owned to a pin-cushion in his pocket.
“Where did he come from?” did ye say?
Somewhere over Lough Molla' way;
And a road runnin' in on the opposite side,
A long sort of road that went to Kirk Bride,
And joinin' together, and leadin' down,
And over the bridge, and into the town;
And about a mile, I think it will be,
On the Kirk Bride road there's a path you'll see
Betwix' the brews that the sheep have wore,
And a cart-track leadin' to the shore;
And a pleasant little place they're callin'—
What's this it is now?—aye, “The Vollin”—
And a little house, and a garden to 't,
And a little croft, and a mackarel boat,
And some trees they've planted, but they haven't thriven,
And that's where Nelly Quine was livin'.
So you see these two would be meetin' there
Every mornin', rain or fair.
For, mind ye, if this Tommy was late—
And he tried to be—little Nelly would wait.
Wait she would, and pretend a nest,
In the briars, you know; or had to rest;
Or a pin or somethin' she was losin';
Or sittin' down to put her shoes on.
Then Tommy would come, and he'd give a peep
Round the corner, and then he'd creep
Close in to the hedge, and wouldn' allow
He saw her a bit, and on like a plough.
And there they'd go—you'd have split to seen them—
One on each side, and the road between them—
And little Nelly lookin', lookin';
And this poor bashful divil hookin'
The best he could. And every turn
In the road, no matter the bend, he'd burn
With the shame; and he'd crib himself into a O,
Like feelin' her bearin' on him, you know.
And sometimes Nelly'd give a race,
And get before him, and look in his face,
And he'd stop as dead—and she'd give a little snigger
Of a laugh in her nose, like the click of a trigger,
And lookin' under to see could she prize
His big head up with a lift of her eyes—
Botherin' this chap. But when they'd be near
The school, she wasn' willin' they'd see her
Comin' with Tommy; and she'd tuck up her clothes,
And she'd shake her hair, and away she goes;
And the little feet twinkling—ha! ha! my men!
He'd look rather sharp, would Tommy, then.
And Dick, and Nick, and all the rest of them—
Miss Nelly could plague him with the best of them—
Indeed she could; and boo and hiss,
And put out her mouth like wantin' a kiss,
And dance round him, and ask him to carry her—
“Do, Tommy!” and—when was he goin' to marry her?
“When, Tommy! when la'?” just bewild'rin'—
That's when she was with the other children.
“Fiends” I called them, did I? Well,
I shouldn' then. It's hard to tell;
And it's likely God has got a plan
To put a spirit in a man
That's more than you can stow away
In the heart of a child. But he'll see the day
When he'll not have a bit too much for the work
He's got to do. And the little Turk
Is good for nothin' but shoutin' and fightin'
And carryin' on; and God delightin'
To make him strong and bold and free,
And thinkin' the man he's goin' to be—
More beef than butter, more lean than lard;
Hard, if you like; but the world is hard.
You'll see a river how it dances
From rock to rock, wherever it chances—
In and out, and here and there:
A regular young divil-may-care!
But, caught in the sluice, it's another case,
And it steadies down, and it flushes the race
Very deep and strong, but still
It's not too much to work the mill.
The same with hosses—kick and bite
And winch away—all right, all right!
Wait a bit, and give him his ground,
And he'll win his rider a thousand pound.
Aw dear! aw dear! I've had my day,
And it's a merry month is the month of May—
Little Peggies, little Annies,
Little Nellies, little Fannies—
And you with Kitty, and me with Sal,
And coortin' like the deuce and all;
And playin' weddin's, and pretendin' to go
To the Vicar for a licence, you know—
And a book, and sayin' the very words—
Bless ye! as innocent as the birds!
So what did a lot of us do but join
And persuade this Tommy that Nelly Quine
Was desperate in love with him there—
And, “Spake to her, Tommy! spake to her!
Spake to her, for all!” we said:
“Yes, dyin' in love!” And he hung the head
Like a clout, poor chap! But we stuck to him still—
And “If you'll not spake, there's others that will,”
Says one of the imps. And how she'd be blushin'
When they'd tell her the bad that Tommy was wushin'
To be her sweetheart, but afraid to make free.
“And listen, Tommy! the plased she'll be!”
Says the imp. Then Tommy looked up, but slow,
And the big blue eyes began to blow
Like—“Bladders” was it I was sayin'?
“Rumberellas?” Try again.
“Bubbles,” was it? What d'ye call—
“Blow'n',” I said. Just aisy all!
“Blow'n',” of coorse; and the bigger the lies
The wider Tommy was spreadin' the eyes.
“She said you were handsome; she said you were smart;
She said she was almost breakin' her heart”;
“She called you a duck”; “She called you a dove”;
“She called you her darlin' darlin' love”;
And the tasty dressed, she said she never;
And the splendid trousis he had however;
And the way they were stitched, and the beautiful gimp,
“She didn'!” says I. “She did!” says the imp:
And “Buck up, Tommy, and bring her a present.”
These imps is terrible onpleasant.
So one day Tommy took the road
The very earliest he could;
And into the school as quite as a worm,
And claps his basket under the furm —
His dinner, you'd think—and waited there
Till school began; but just in the prayer
A fellow gave a shove—worse luck!
At Tommy's basket; and “Tuck-tuck-tuck!”
And the master stopped, and we all of us stopped;
And “Tuck-tuck-tuck!” and out she popped—
A beautiful little hen—and she flew
This way and that way—and “Shish!” and “Shoo!”
And over the desks; and we all gave chase,
And she flapped her wings in the master's face—
And the dignified he turned to look!
And “Shoo!” he says; and “Tuck-tuck-tuck”—
And away to the window, and scratched and tore;
And the feathers flyin'. “Open that door!”
Says the master then; and, glad to be shot of us,
So out goes the hen, and out goes the lot of us—
Helter-skelter, boys and gels—
Sticks and stones, or anything else:
“Catch her!” “Watch her!”
“Stop her!” “Drop her!”
“Here she is!” “There she is!”
“Tommy's I'll swear she is!”
“Tommy's! Tommy's! Hop-chu-naa!
Three cheers for Tommy!—Hip-hip-hooraa!”
And a stone come flyin', and a flip and a flutter—
And down went the poor little hen in the gutter,
And her leg was broken; and “Take her up!”
And “The poor little thing!” and “Stop, then; stop!
Here's Tommy himself!” And Tommy came,
And he stood like dumb. “It's a dirty shame!”
Says one of the gels, and begun a cryin'.
Says an imp, “He brought her for Nelly Quine!”
And, “Nelly! for Nelly!” and took and caught her!
And, “Nelly's his sweetheart! It's for Nelly he brought her!”
So when Tommy heard that, he stooped down low,
Like to take the hen, and the tears to flow
Most pitiful, and shivered all over—
And, “Look at him, Nelly! look at your lover!”
But Nelly sprung like a flash of light,
And her eye was set, and her face was white;
And she put her hand upon his head,
And, “Was it for me then, Tommy?” she said—
“Was it for me?” And he snuffs and he snivels;
And, “Yes,” says Tommy. “Hooraa!” says the divils.
Then Nelly faced round like a tiger-cat—
“You brutes!” she said, “gerr out of that!
Gerr out, you cowards!” and her face all burned
With the fury of her; and she turned,
And she took this hen that Tommy confessed,
And she coaxed it, and put it in her breast,
And kissed and kissed it over again.
“My own little hen! my own little hen!”
Says Nelly; and then she got Tommy to rise,
And took her brat to wipe his eyes.
But away goes Tommy over the street
Like the very wind, and Nelly gave sheet
As far as the bridge; but it wasn' no use,
For Tommy could run like the very deuce—
And the hen in her arms and all, you see—
So she stood and laughed; and didn't we?
Laughed and laughed—the little midge!—
And leaned against the wall of the bridge,
And laughed again; but I'll be sworn
There was many a day after that you darn'
Say much before Nelly about Tommy—no!
She wouldn't have it! Touch and go,
Was Nelly. Three words, and by jabers you'd gerrit!
Aw, the gel, ye see, had a splendid sperrit!
Just the least little chuck! was enough, and then
You couldn't coax her back again.
“And why did she laugh herself”—did ye say?
“The time poor Tommy was runnin' away?”
Well, everythin' of coorse in raison!
And the fool he looked, you know, was amazin'.
But, even then, when she heard us behind her,
Singin' out “Tally-high-ho-the-grinder!” (The grinder! if you know what that is!)
She turned and looked like thunder at us—
And, upon my word, there's a lot of thunder
'll go in a little noddle like yonder.
So she rolled the little hen in her brat,
And its little heart all pit-a-pat—
And as dignified as dignified—
And starts, and away with her home to Kirk Bride.
And no school for her that day nor the next—
Oh, Miss Nelly was desperate vexed!
But Tommy came the very next day—
And if he didn' catch it—eh!
By gum! He'd make an impression,
The master said; and he gave him a threshin'
In the good old style, with your thwickumy-thwackumy!
Slishin'-slashin'! bick-o'-me-back-o'-me!
And, “Fowls!” he said. “What next?” he said—
“Ducks and geese!”—and, “Hould up your head!”—
Pigs and geese, as like as not!
Bulls of Bashan! You couldn' tell what!
The whole of the farm! “But, look ye here!”
He said—and he caught him a clip on the ear—
“You insolent vagabone!” he says,
“Who's goin' to see the end of this?”
Was it fowls!! Well, well! had it really come
To fowls!! Why, it abslit struck him dumb,
He said. Of coorse, he said, marbles he knew,
And even, now and then, an apple or two:
And liked his scholars to be cheerful;
But—fowls!!! he said—it was simply fearful!
No, he couldn', he couldn' pretend,
He really couldn', to say where would it end.
Abominable, he said, the habits
Of childher now-a-days!—the rabbits
And rubbish! he said; and “Fowls!” he said—“Fowls!!”
And he lifts his voice, and reglar howls.
And the lot of us poor little blokes
Takin' care to laugh at all his jokes.
Oh! he said, it wasn' no use!
And down came the cane like the very deuce
By Jove! he laid into him like greens,
Till poor Tommy was all in smithereens—
Poor little chap! the way he was tanned!
But stood it grand! stood it grand!
So when Nelly come back, the whole of the row
Was over, you know; but, anyhow,
The master didn' say a word
To her at all; but of coorse she heard—
“Took and pounded him into jammy!”
We said. And the way she looked at Tommy!
But Tommy didn' look to her.
Tommy kept his eyes on the floor.
But I never saw anythin' beautifuller
Than Nelly's little face, and the colour
Comin' and goin' in her cheek;
And her eyes, that, if they didn't speak—
Well that was all. And weren't they pretty!
Yes; but now they were wells of pity—
Wells of pity, full to the brim;
And longin' to coax and comfort him.
Aw, she couldn' take them off him, I'll swear!
But whether this Tommy was aware
I cannot tell; for he wouldn' look,
But the head of him down on the slate or the book
Like nailed; but still a way with his back,
Or his body altogether lek,
And a sort of a snugglin' with his head
That showed he was a little bit comforted.
So that evening she wouldn' let Tommy go home
By himself at all; but collared to 'm,
And wouldn' leave him; but, step for step,
The quick or the slow, till they came to the Clip,
Where the roads divide. Then Nelly spoke—
And Tommy fit enough to choke—
And, “I'll give you a kiss,” she says, “Tommy, for that”—
And she wiped her little mouth with her brat.
“Here now, Tommy!” and made a lip to 'm;
But Tommy ran; but Nelly gript him;
And Tommy turned this way, and Tommy turned that way;—
And poor little Nelly couldn' tell what way—
And first cockin' one ear, and then the other,
Till at last says Nelly, “Dear heart! the bother
There's with you, too!” And, “Turn, for all!
Turn, ye donkey!” But he stood like a wall;
And whatever she did, and whatever she said,
She was forced to kiss him on the back of his head.
And then if Tommy didn' cut!
But Nelly stamped the little foot—
And, “Well, I never!”—and, “Fiddlededee!”—
And, “After all, he's a fool!” says she.
‘She was right,” you're sayin’? Poor Tommy though!
“Right enough?” Well, I don't know—
If a chap won't take a kiss when it's gave him,
You suppose the only way is to lave him?
Yes, I suppose so. Aw, Nelly was furious!
But still, for all, it's very curious,
The little foot was slack enough
Before she got home, and all the huff
Washed away in bitter tears—
And as white as a sheet: and so it appears
The mother noticed. And, What was the matter?
And, “Dear me!” and clitter-clatter.
But if Nelly was sorrowful, then trust me
It was Tommy that was happy. “She kissed me!
She did! she did! she did!” And over
The hedge, and into a field of clover,
That was very fine; and he threw himself down
In the thick of it; and never a soun'
But the corn-crakes crowin' very clear—
You know they're about that time of the year—
Just to be happy, you know, and think—
The little chap! And the last sweet blink
Of the day, and the big cloud sailin' across—
And oh! he thought, the happy he was!
Bless ye! he's tould me many a time.
Why, this Tommy could put it in rhyme!
He was a bit of a poet, was Tommy—aye!
Aw, never say die! never say die!
A poet, I tell ye, reggilar!
And— The Star! that was splendid about the star!
Of coorse, he didn' make it then:
It'd ha' puzzled him to do that, my men!
No, the long years after this
(But even at school he wasn' amiss
With his little songs). I wouldn' trust
But I've got it here—I think I must—
Wrote at Tommy. Aisy all!
That's not it. Rather small
Is Tommy's writin'. Wait a bit!
“Star of Hope”—that's it! that's it!
Will you read it, Jemmy? Give him a light?
Jemmy's a scholar. All right! all right!
Jemmy reads:
First-rate, Jemmy! that'll do!
Capital readin'! Aw, it's aisy for you.
Well, however, this Tommy fell asleep,
With the light of the stars on his face, poor sweep,
And when he awoke the night was half over,
And the star was really down in the clover.
So Tommy felt rather shiverin',
And home like the mischief, and creepin' in—
Poor craythur! and never a bite or a sup for him,
But only the father sittin' up for him—
And took a stick, and gave it him hot;
And for-shamed him, and sent him to bed like a shot.
But, of'coorse, this was rather too much for the lad;
So Tommy was taken very bad.
It was weeks, I believe, afore he was out,
And even then only creepin' about—
And, I really can't azackly explain,
But he never come to school again—
At least to ours—I don't know did they get
To hear the way the lad was beat.
But, however, he was sent to another school—
Somewhere down by the Ballagoole;
And that would be close to his father's house,
That owned a croft and a couple of cows,
And a pig or two—aw, a dacent ould blade.
The man was a blacksmith to his trade,
And worked at it, too: at least, if he didn'
There was the smithy aback of his midden.
He was a hard man, though—very hard—
And a man that didn' much regard
For the people that was over him:
Pazons, churchwardens, sumners, and them.
There's no doubt he was rather fond of a fight;
But any way he'd have his right—
The commons, the quarterlands, the cess,
Intacks, easements, and all the rest.
That's the man that could rattle them off—
And only ownin' this bit of a crof'.
I believe the joy of his life was to go
To a vestry meetin', and have a jaw
With the Archdeacon, that was capital
For keepin' the temper; and the louder he'd bawl,
“The bark,” he'd say, “is worse than the bite of him”;
And bore with the chap, but hated the sight of him.
That was Gellin'—quarrelsome rather;
And, anyway, he was Tommy's father.
But “Nelly! Nelly!”—certainly!
Always after the gels, I see!
Well, I really don't think she cared a toss
About poor Tommy, how he was.
I can't say, of coorse—they're very queer—
But still for all it didn' appear
She took up with any of these other chaps—
So that's the way, you know—so p'rhaps—
But dear me! a fellow that couldn' take a kiss
Just in a way of friendliness—
Well, of coorse, a chap that'd act that funky—
She must have thought him rather a donkey—
Must, you know—a soft sort of craythur—
Aw, there's no mistake—it's only nathur—
And none of us didn' say nothin' to her,
And she didn' stay over a quarter more,
Bein' wanted at home for a baby they had,
And fish was scarce, and times was bad.
Well, after a time this Tommy was sent
To work on a farm that was called Renshent—
Jurby way, runnin' out on the shore,
Somewhere aback of the Ballamoore;
And a sandy sort of a place; but still
The farm was runnin' up to a hill
Slopin' south: and, just when you come
On the top, the brews went down like a plumb
To the shilley behind; no rocks at all,
Just clayey stuff, but as steep as a wall,
And the jackdaws workin' their holes in it clever,
The divils, bein' soft, you'll observe; but, however,
You know the sort of place I mean—
Snug, I can tell ye—Archie Cain
They were callin' the farmer—but come with the wife;
But what's the odds! dear bless my life!
Fairish plough-land—couldn' be beat,
I've heard, for turmits—a little wet
In the bottom, no doubt, a sort of a gaery,
But splendid for geese; not much of a dairy—
Well, you wouldn' expeck—just enough that would do
For themselves—a nice little meadow or two—
But it paid them well—that gaery piece—
As round as bollans! tremenjis geese!
Oh, I knew Renshent—and a beautiful garden—
Bless me! wasn' Cain a warden?
And a round of trees, if it's trees you'd call them,
For, the way the salt of the wind'll scald them
Over there, they're rather like bushes—
But still, for all, these lumps of thrushes
Of a summer's everin', and the way they'd be shoutin'
After the sun, as if they were doubtin'
Would he ever come back to them again—
And, “Be sure! be sure!” you'd think they were sayin'—
Rum things is birds though—yes, indeed—
Astonishin' the places they'll breed—
Very curious that way—
Fanciful I call them—eh?
Fanciful—Dear me! the dub
That was there for the ducks, and a sort of scrub
Of jenny-nettles and that, where the hens
Was layin' on the sly, in the lee of the fence
That ran by the gable; and a splendid old trammon
For the fairies. But, bless my soul! what gammon!
As if it was any odds to you—
But, ye see, I like them places, I do.
However, this Cain had a very nice spot of it—
About a hundred acres'd be the lot of it.
So Tommy was put to Renshent all right,
And ould Gellin' had a desp'rate fight
About the wages, and all the rest of it;
And I don't know which of the two had the best of it—
But of coorse he'd have a understandin',
And a row, if it was only to keep his hand in.
But Cain was his match; so, with a deal of bother,
They settled it betwix' them some way or another.
And Tommy made a fuss-rate servant—
“Diligent in business, fervent
In spirit”—it's sayin' in the Bible—eh?
There's no doubt that Tommy earned his pay—
Aye did he—earned it to the full:
For, ye see, the chap was as strong as a bull,
And handier till men that was twice his size,
And uncommon watchful, and willin', and wise.
Well, now, this Tommy, after a bit,
Got to be a terr'ble favourite
With the misthress there, that was one of the sweetest
Women you ever, about the completest
Every way a woman should be—
I don't think a better woman could be—
For patience, for gentleness, and that—
She was one of the Shimmins of Ballarat—
They were all of them nice—aw, a capital strain!
But the nicest of all was Missis Cain.
And she took to Tommy very much,
For, you know, there wasn' the smallest touch
Of divilment in Tommy—no!
But all the other road, and so
The woman was feelin' quite at her aise with him,
She said he had such studdy ways with him.
For there's some of these country lads is rough,
And cheeky, and impudent enough;
And carryin' on with the gels, and slinkin'
Off to the public-house, and drinkin',
And stayin' out without any leave,
And not the smallest notion how to behave.
But Misses Cain was a woman that'd be
Always for order and decency.
She wasn' strict, so much to speak,
But pitiful, and lovin', and meek:
And when that woman was in a place
You'd think there couldn' be nothin' but peace—
It seemed to breathe from her very skin—
The pure and white astonishin'!
She wasn' a stirrin' woman at all,
Nor given to scouldin', and hadn' no call;
For the woman had only just to sit
In any room, and you'd see it lit
With a sóft sweet light, that was just the holy
She looked, and the pure; and all sin and folly
And dirt, and evil talk, was driven
From her; and her smile was like an angel in heaven.
Do you believe, if a picture of Christ was hung
Somewhere, that a fellow could do what was wrong
Before it at all? I don't think he would.
But we're told these Romans——but what's the good?
God knows the heart; and I don't like to be sayin'
Too much, you know; but Missis Cain—
Dear me! it's no use! wasn' she a Shimmin
Of Ballarat?—most splendid women!
And Tommy had nice ways with him, too;
Indeed, for his station, there'd be very few
That would have such sense and manners, both;
The very way he was suppin' his broth,
Missis Cain remarked (and she was right, bedad!),
Was showin' the proper feelin's he had.
No puffin' and blowin', no stuffin' and chewin',
And scroogin' and nudgin', and the elbers goin'
Like a shoemaker; but Tommy would dip
His spoon very delicate-like, and the lip
As tight as a puss; and no slushin' and sloppin'—
And, besides, the fellow knew when to be stoppin'.
So that'll do—all right! all right!
Now, Missis Cain she took a delight
In Tommy—reg'lar delight it was,
The decent woman! ye see, because
She was thinkin' the nice example he'd be
To all the rest of the family.
And it wasn' only eating either,
But just his conduct altogether—
Modest—and when the work was done
Of an everin', and every one
Was gettin' sleepy, Tommy would take
His book, and keep them all awake—
Beautiful readin'—and a lovely voice,
And the gels would say it was very nice,
And listen, grand; but the boys would be laughin',
And tryin' to carry on with their chaffin':
But the gels would shame them, and then they'd be quiet;
And then some of them would take and try it;
And then the gels would laugh till they were shakin'—
The idikkilis mistakes they were makin'—
And then they'd give in; and all the while
The misthress'd be havin' a little smile—
And Tommy as happy, and explainin' there—
A good-natured craythur, never fear!
And simple; and then he'd take the book,
And a gel would look, and a boy would look,
And back into a corner, and start
A little bit of courtin'—dear heart!
What harm?—And you'd hear a kiss go pop!
And the misthress would be lookin' up,
But noways cross, just a sort of surprise;
But Tommy 'd never lift his eyes.
What was he readin'? All sorts of things—
Lives of pessons—Queens and Kings—
Travels—history, you know—
Pilgrim's Progress—Robin Crusoe.
And Tommy had a fiddle too,
And I don't know what was there he couldn' do
With yandhar fiddle, the way it'd mock
Everything—it 'd crow like a cock,
It'd hoot like a donkey, it 'd moo like a cow;
It'd cry like a baby, it 'd grunt like a sow,
Or a thrush, or a pigeon, or a lark, or a linnet—
You'd really thought they were livin' in it.
But the tunes he was playin'—that was the thing
Like squeezin' honey from the string;
Like milkin' a fiddle—no jerks, no squeaks—
And the tears upon the misthress' cheeks.
And sometimes he'd play a dance—and what harm!
But she wouldn' have it upon the farm,
The misthress wouldn'—dancin', I mean—
It didn' matter so much for the play'n':
But she'd often stop him, and ask would he change
To a nice slow tune, and Tommy would range
Up and down the strings, and sliddher
Into the key; and then he'd feather
The bow very fine, and a sort of a hum,
Like a bee röund a flower, and out it 'd come—
“Ould Robin Gray,” or the “Lover's Ghost”—
That's the two she liked the most:
And the gels, that only a minute afore
Were ready to jump and clear the floor,
Sat still on the form, but onaisy though,
And terr'ble disappointed, you know.
And sometimes they'd be coaxin' Tommy to take
The fiddle out in the orchard, and shake
His funny-bone over a jig or a reel—
Something to tickle a body's heel,
Says one of the gels—and “I'll give you a kiss!
Faith, I will then, Tommy!” she says:
And Tommy that blushed to the roots of his hair;
But still, he said, no matter where,
If the misthress wasn' willing,
He wouldn'—and, “Tommy, we'll give you a shillin'!”
And coaxin' away: but he didn' regard them.
And anyway, you know, she'd have heard them.
But Cain himself? the master, you mean—
Oh, a very nice man was Cain,
Very, very—couldn' be beat.
But you'll hear something more about him yet.
Cain was a “Local,” you'll understand—
Yes! aw, the very head of the plan.
They said to preach he was only fair,
But you couldn' touch him for a prayer—
Soundin' out like a trumpet-blast;
And shockin' powerful with a class.
I don't know much about their rigs,
These Methodists that has their gigs,
And travels about; but Cain preferred
To stay at home, and preach the Word
To his neighbours there. So he got to be
A sort of Apostle among them, you see,
A prince and a ruler among his people,
A tower of the truth, a reg'lar steeple
Was Cain; and had his mortgages,
And money out at interest,
With all the members—isn' that the name?—
And even the chapel itself the same.
I've heard him there—a tremenjis voice—
“Rejoice!” he'd say, “my friends, rejoice!”
And up the high you couldn' think,
And up, and up—but afore you could wink,
Down like a gannet, like he wanted to pin
The divil in soundin's! and then he'd begin,
And he'd wrestle and groan, and he'd thump and he'd thwack—
A black-haired man, and his eyes was black.
So he says one day to Tommy at last—
“You seem to have gifts with that fiddle,” he says,
And he flattens his hand like a dab of mortar
On the little chap's shoulder, and a kind of a sorter
Lookin' far off—“Now, gifts, my friend,
Is from the Lord, that knows where to send
His gifts,” he says; “and so you see,
They must be used accordantly,”
And a little pat, and the lift of the eye,
Like talkin' to somebody twelve foot high.
I was there myself, and listenin' to 'm;
For almost every time I come home
I'd be out, bein' allis in a friendly way with them,
And takin' joy, and havin' my tay with them—
Well, of course, there was gels there too—
But look here! confound it! what's that to you?
“Now,” he says, “this fiddle here
Is very pleasant to the carnal ear,
To the ear of sense, that's aisy plaised,
But them that's got their affections raised,
How is it with them?” and his voice quite holler,
And took a hitch in Tommy's collar,
That was restless rather, and studdied him
Like a little sack—“How is it with them?”
And a twist with his knuckle, and “the aisy yoke,”
He says, and Tommy fit to choke,
Till at last the misthress said, rather fearful,
She thought the fiddle was very cheerful
And nice, and makin' people happy.
Oh, he turned upon her as snappy as snappy—
“Who asked your opinion? It's unbecomin',”
He says, “It's clane again Paul for a woman
To talk in the church.” “But at home,” she said,
“In the house, I don't see,” aw, his face got as red
As the fire, aw, you never seen the complexion.
“Silence!” he said, “Subjection! subjection!”
And then he got as peaceful lek,
“And,” he says, “I've a propogicion to make,”
And Tommy stoops and Tommy shifts,
“Thomas Gelling,” he says, “your gifts
Is only a snare to you, after all,
A snare,” he says; “but hear the call—
Take,” he says, “and dedicate
These gifts to His service; there's a handy seat
Under the pulpit,” he says, “in the middle
Of the aisle,” he says. “What! play the fiddle
In the chapel!” says Missis Cain; but he gave
A sweep with the hand, and “By your lave,”
He says, very dignified, “I was comin'
To that,” he said, “but, of course, a woman!
But never mind (a tongue on a wire!)
This fiddle may go on the back of the fire,
Or the midden, or any other place;
You'll be cultivatin' the viol-bass,
Of course, the proper instrument,”
He says, “and begin immadient.
We'll get it from Ramsey,” he says, “you'll see;
And it'll be the chapel's property,
And paid in instalments out of the fund—
It isn' very expensive they run,
These viol-basses; and you'll have permission
To use it, but only on condition
You'll lead the singing. So there you have it:
And now your talent'll be His who gave it,
And you'll be sitting in the front pew,
And God 'll be glorified in you.”
And he sniffed, and Tommy said nothin' whatever.
“I've no doubt,” says Cain, “you'll do your endeavour;
But we're all of us wake,” he says, “and you know
Where we're privileged to go,
Thomas,” he says, and——on and on,
Till I thought he never would be done.
So at last I left him there in the thick of it,
For, I tell ye what, I was fairly sick of it—
A thund'rin' rascal, anyhow;
But, however, you'll hear, you'll hear just now.
So, you see, this bass viol
Was sent for from Ramsey at first on trial,
Apprerbation, or whatever they call it,
And Tommy there to overhaul it,
And see was it right, and couldn' take to it
At first at all, not able to spake to it,
He said, like the fiddle; aw, longin' shockin'
For the fiddle, for all, that was used to go cockin'
On his shouldher so handy, you know, or sittin'
Upon his breast like a little kitten,
Nustlin' there agen his cheek,
And coaxin' the lovely little squeak
Out of its innards, somewhere or another,
Just like a baby with the mother—
And the misthress loved to hear him like that,
It went to her soul, she couldn' tell what
She was feelin', no, she couldn', she said,
But, comforted, aye, comforted—
And she had her troubles with yandhar man,
Poor thing! and it wasn' with him they began—
No—and this Tommy delighted to plaze her.
But when he got this roarin' baser,
He was put out most pitiful;
For, however he'd screw, and however he'd pull,
And see-sawin'
And Margery-Dawin',
He'd get nothin', with all his scrapes and his scrowls,
But a sort of booin' you'll hear at these owls.
So Tommy was bothered, and you see the raison,
For he thought it couldn' do nothin' but bas'in',
And hadn' no notion the awkard brute
Could play as soft as any flute.
And deeper and deeper still he was goin',
And sawin' the bass to the very bone,
And no music at all; till at last the fact is
The misthress axed him to have his practice
Somewhere else. So away to the barn
Goes Tommy with this big consarn,
Determined, I tell ye, to have it out with it;
For he hadn' the smallest bit of a doubt with it
But the tune was in it somewhere, you know.
So there he was; and he tried the slow,
And he tried the quick; till at last, by jing!
He come upon the tannor string,
That he'd come upon many a time afore:
And ript and rapt, and tagged and tore,
And nothin'—but now it was different,
Astonishin' the way it went,
Whatever the touch, or whatever the turn,
Like butter comin' on the churn,
When you're nearly beat—like butter, he was sayin',
Like butter, the soft, you'll obsarve, he was playin'—
Like butter—Aw, he worked it grand!
Like a livin' thing, he said, under his hand;
Like rivers of water in a thirsty land.
So Tommy ran up the string like a paper
Will run up to a kite; aw, he made her caper,
Rejisin', you know, the high he got
After yandhar basser's, aw, workin' it hot,
And rispin' and raspin', and thrimmin' and thrummin'
Till the very thrashin' boord was hummin'.
So all the people was wondherin'
Outside; for Tommy had locked himself in.
And the boys to the door, and begun to push,
And shout, and kick: but the gels said—hush!
Hush! they said, and stood like cravin',
For the sweet it was—they said it was heaven
Heaven! they said; and to hould their noise:
Gels is musicaller till boys—
Just so—takin' a interest—
Much more easier empressed.
So the next night Tommy began in the kitchen,
And the misthress couldn' help droppin' her stitchin'
And starin' at Tommy, the look he had,
Just like a body goin' mad—
With his head thrown back, and his eyes like moons,
And his hair all ruxed, and tunes and tunes.
And the lads very quiet, sittin' back-o'-behind,
And the women that 'cited they couldn' mind
Their wheels, lek afraid if a sound'd be missin',
And smoothin' the brat a purpose to listen;
And the tannor string as clear as a bell,
And Cain from home, and just as well.
Then Tommy was at the misthress to get her
To think that the viol-bass was better
Till the fiddle itself, bein' full of power,
Says Tommy, and the fiddle apt to be sour,
And thin in the top; but the viol, he said,
Was studdy, and sure, and keepin' its head
On the small edge of nothing; no baby, not him!
“But a fine big lusty cherubim,
That takes the half of Jacob's ladder
At a leap,” he says, or—“maybe, rather,
Like a beautiful man, that loves you,” he says,
“And turns your sorrows to happiness.”
'Deed the misthress looked to see what he meant;
But—innocent, bless ye! innocent—
Hadn' a notion, not him, the sowl!
Aw, as innocent as a biddhag bowl!
But, after that, the life they led with him,
I'm tould, was shockin'—must have it in bed with him,
This viol, and reachin' to his nose,
And the stick of it tanglin' in the clothes,
And strugglin', and gettin' out on the floor,
And at it still—aw, well to be sure!
At it, I tell ye, from night to mornin';
And the chaps that was sleepin' with him gave them warnin';
And Tommy had to go over the stable;
But, if he'd been put on the top of the tower of Babel,
Tommy wouldn' have been offended,
Just the thing for him, got on most splendid—
But terrible partikkilar;
No! he said, he wouldn' dar'
He couldn'; they really must excuse him;
No! nothin' in the world'd induce him,
He said, to go in the chapel yet:
And Cain couldn' understand him a bit;
And very impatient; and no wonder either—
They were runnin' away with him altogether,
Them gifts, and remindin' him of Paul,
That didn' think much of them at all,
But rather bothered him, yes indeed!
Aw, there's no mistake, a troublesome breed;
“And, for all the carryin' on there's about them
The Church could do very well without them.”
But Tommy was firm: he said he was wantin'
To see the Vicar—“What gallivantin'!”
Says Cain—“The Vicar! the Vicar! eh?”
“Yes,” says Tommy, “he asked me to play
A piece with him, just for a trial
How the piano would work with the viol.”
“It's—a very unsatisfactory sperrit”;
Says Cain, “but, however, lerrit! lerrit!
Lerrit!” he said. So Tommy went
To see the Vicar, that was well acquent
With Tommy, a wonderful aisy man
Was Pazon Croft—he was an Englishman
But despard shy, for wherever he came,
He was just like walkin' in a drame—
Very white in the face. I've heard it stated
That Pazon Croft was eddikated
In one of them big churches they've got
Over in England—Cathedrals—what?
Cathedrals—aye: and, the lovely he sung,
He was put to the urgans very young—
Not much like this music that's driven in
Hapes of people, but what he was livin' in.
For, the finest music that ever was done
He'd hardly be knowin when it begun,
Or when it left off—just so, just so—
Havin' it all inside him, you know.
And if the trees, or the stacks in the yard,
Had struck up, he'd been perfectly prepared.
Bless me! if yandhar men had met
A quire of angels that was just let
On Snaefell to practise their hosanners,
He'd ha' axed to look over a book with the tannors—
That's all. So, the first he heard
This Tommy and the fiddle, never a word,
Never a wink, as a body might say;
But, still for all, the next day
There he was, and the next, and the next,
Till Cain was gettin' rather vexed—
And, Couldn' they bake on their own griddles?
And, Well to be lookin' higher than fiddles.
So this was the Vicar. So Tommy come;
And, If he wouldn' be throublesome—
And this and that; and, “Come in! come in!”
And down to the piano, and at it like sin;
And jingin' and jangin', and bahin' and bowin',
Till at last they heard the bellows blowin',
For breakfast, you know. So then they left off—
He was a single man was Pazon Croft.
So Tommy come home, and a book at him there
As big as the parish register—
Somewhere about the weight of a sack
Of potatoes, and every bit of it Back —
Back! yes, Back—you don't know what I mean?
Of coorse, of coorse! Well, you see, I'll explain—
Tommy that was tellin' me,
And showin' the way, and how would it be.
Well, it's a difficult sort of music, look'ee!
Slantindicular, that is, crooky,
Up and down, in and out—
Bless me! what am I talkin' about!
Complercated—heads and tails—
Scientific, that is, scales—
I don't know whether you've ever heard—
Fidgets, fuges! that's the word—
Fuges, fuges, that's what I meant—
Excellent, though, excellent!
Fidgets—good! but avast them nudges!
I'm goin' to tell you what a fudge is—
Fuge—dear heart!
What a start!
Well, obsarve! away goes a scrap,
Just a piece of a tune, like a little chap
That runs from his mammy; but mind the row
There'll be about that chap just now!
Off he goes! but whether or not,
The mother is after him like a shot—
Run, you rascal, the fast you're able!
But she nearly nabs him at the gable;
But missin' him after all: and then
He'll give her the imperince of sin:
And he'll duck and he'll dive, and he'll dodge and he'll dip,
And he'll make a run, and he'll give her the slip,
And back again, and turnin' and mockin',
And imitatin' her most shockin',
Every way she's movin', you know:
That's just the way this tune'll go;
Imitatin', changin', hidin',
Doublin' upon itself, dividin':
And other tunes comin' wantin' to dance with it,
But haven't the very smallest chance with it—
It's that slippy and swivel—up, up, up!
Down, down, down! the little pup—
Friskin', whiskin'; and then as solemn,
Like marchin' in a double column,
Like a funeral: or, rather,
If you'll think of this imp, it's like the father
Comin' out to give it him, and his heavy feet
Soundin' like thunder on the street.
And he's caught at last, and they all sing out
Like the very mischief, and dance and shout,
And caper away there most surprisin',
And ends in a terrible rejisin'.
That's Backs, that's fuges—aw, that's fine—
But never mind! never mind!
Of coorse! of coorse! But, however, the day
Come at last for Tommy to play
In the chapel: and they said it was raelly splendid,
But, as soon as the second hymn was ended,
Tommy went on, and it wasn' no use,
On he went like the very deuce.
Fuges! aye! just so—for a part
Of the tune they'd been singin' was just like a start
For one of these fudgets. So it got in his head.
And he couldn' stop—and his face as red,
And his eyes like tar-barrels—only blue,
And—tuttee, tuttee, tuttee, tooh!
I lave it to your imagernation
The feelin's of that congregation—
Feelin's, is it? Well, I'm blest!
Tremenjers! couldn' be expressed!
And first a look at one another,
And then, you know, a kind of a smother
Of a groan; and then—hush! hush! hush! hush!
And then a roar, and then a rush;
And Cain on his feet, and—“Hould him! I say;
Hould him! hould him! anyway;
Take the viol from him! fall him!
Lick him! kick him! smash him! maul him!”
Poor Tommy! poor Tommy! aw, Tommy was ragged,
And Tommy was shook, and Tommy was dragged,
And cast into outer darkness; there
Shall be weepin' and gnashin' of teeth; and I'll swear
If the preacher didn' get up, and thumbed
The Bible there; and hemmed and hummed,
And them very words, or very lek them—
And—this is the way the Lord'd correck them,
He said—this unfortnit young pessin,
No doubt, he said, it was very disthressin';
But here he was! a figger-head—
Figger, I mean—what's this he said?
A lively figger, he said, of them
That's called—but—chosen? No! He came,
Like many others, bid to the weddin';
But hed he the garment? No, he hedn'?
And put to the door, and black in the face,
And very nearly losin' his place.
But Cain thought better of it, for all he grumbled;
And he said he thought the lad was humbled—
And that would do. But, whether or not,
A servant like Tommy couldn' be got
Every day, so he stayed; but he wasn'
Suffered to rub a bit of rosin
On that viol again. And indeed it was bruk
That night in the row, and had to be tuk
Down to Ramsey for repairs,
And if it ever came back who knows and who cares?
Anyway Tommy got over it clever,
And worked the fiddle the same as ever.
But he'd never go to chapel again,
No, not even for Missis Cain.
Sunday morning, the very first thing,
When his porridge was supped, he'd be off on the wing
For the Curraghs down—and away for hours—
Butterflies, insecks, beetles, flowers—
G'ology, botany, and such,
And a book to tell him which was which;
And a bit of a glass that wasn' as long
As your thumb. But, goodness me! the strong!—
Microscope. Hulloah! look out!
Aye, man! aye! and what do you know about
Microscopes? You're took on the sudden.
Well, you know, I wish you wouldn'.
But—however. So he liked the Curraghs well,
Did Tommy; and they've got a beautiful smell,
Upon my word, them Curraghs; yes!
Even in the spring they're not amiss,
When the soft little sally buds is busted,
And all the sthrames about is dusted
With the yellow meal: but—in summer! I'm blowed!
Just before the grass is mowed—
Kirk Andreas way, St. Jude's, Lezayre—
Just lie down, no matter where,
And you'll think you're in heaven: and the steam and the heat
Fit to smother you, the sweet—
Splendid too, when a chap is home
From a voyage; very wholesome to'm,
Clearin' the blood—astonishin'
The way it exthracks the salt from the skin.
So this is where Tommy allis was hauntin'—
Every mortal thing he was wantin'
He could find in them meadows—wonderful land
For harbs! and him that could understand
The sorts, you know, and the virtue they had,
And were they good, or were they bad—
And them that was p'ison—aw, first rate;
Bless ye! the p'isons was just like mate
To Tommy, that liked to feel the strong
They were, and rowlin' them on his tongue.
Well, he was curious, I tell ye—
“Look here!” he'd say, “I could take and kill ye
With a drop of this stuff!” For he'd boil it, and strain it,
And still it and steam it, and draw it and drain it,
Till he'd nothin' left but the very last squeeze
Of the Divil's own clout—aw, as nice as you please—
What's this he called it—“concockit?” “decockit,”
Aye, stowed away in his waistcoot pocket,
Many a time I've tould the chap
To take care for fear he'd get into a scrape
With this dirt, that nobody never can't trust—
Abominable dangerous!
So, flowers springin'
Linnets singin',
Church bells ding-a-ling-a-lingin'—
There was Tommy in his glory.
So, one day, I tell ye, afore he
Knew where he was—now, what d'ye think?
Nelly! Nelly! And the start and the blink
Of her bonny blue eye—like some haythen goddess,
Tommy was tellin'; and curtseys as modest:
But dear me! the mischief and the sauce
There'll be under all that! and the quick little toss
Of the head; and then—“I suppose,” says she,
“You don't know me, Tommy?” “Know you!” says he,
And his face all burnin' like the very fire—
“Know you!” and daren't look any higher
Than her knees. “It's lek I've grew,” she said—
“Grew?” says Tommy, and as red as red—
“Grew?” “Would ye think,” she said, “I'm the same
Little gel that used to answer her name
At Creer's—the same you were such a friend to—
The little gel you brought the hen to?”
“Think?” says Tommy, “think!” and it all
Come over him like the burst of a squall
When the mornin' lifts—“Dear me!” she says,
“Look up!” and he did, and he saw the dressed,
And the grew and all, and he looked around,
And—who was he? and he made a bound,
And cleared the hedge, and away like a deer—
Did Nelly laugh? Well, I didn' see her—
But—I rather think not, but—take the hint!
She was goin' to church, so of coorse she went.
But mind ye! that was the road the gel
Had to go. So, very well!
Where was Tommy now would ye be thinkin'
The very next Sunday? and sneakin' and slinkin'
Behind the very same hedge? Dear me!
What else? and hid that a crow couldn' see
Where he was hidin'; and as still as a block,
Still,—but felt the whiff of her frock,
And shivered, and waited till she'd pass,
And kissed the print of her foot in the grass,
And kissed, and kissed: so, of coorse, you know,
He loved her again—poor Tommy though!
Again he loved her! it hadn' died
In his heart—this love; just stupefied
Like a fire that's slacked, like a spark in the tinder;
Like you'll wake with the light, and jump to the winder—
Jump to the winder—she's comin'! she's comin'!
I'll tell ye what! this love is a rum 'un!
But at last poor Tommy, with all his blushes,
Got pluck, and'd twiss hisself out o' the bushes
Like a little hedgehog before her there—
A hedgehog makin' up to a hare,
Rowlin'—his legs were rather crookit—
And maybe flowers for her to look at,
Or tarroodeals, or ladybirds—
That's coleopthars—terrible words!
Aye, but Tommy took heart of grace;
And, the second Sunday, he looked in her face;
And the third, she didn' come alone,
And Tommy gave a sort of a groan,
And cut; and the fourth, they had a talk;
And the fifth, I believe they had a walk—
Two fields or so—and left in the lurch with her
At those other gels, but wouldn' go to church with her—
Catch him! so she tould him how it was,
And she was come for a sarvint to the Ballaglass,
The principal house in the parish—aye—
Captain Moore—aw, terrible high—
Splendid family them Moores—
Deemsthars, Clerk-of-the-Roulses, brewers—
All sorts of swells, you know, that's goin',
Was belongin' to the Moores—no knowin'
The ould, that family; blood, man, blood!
Aw, the rael thing—from the time of the flood—
Officials, Staff-of-Government,
And all to that. So this here gent
Was countin' among the first of the land,
Not rich, exactly, you'll understand:
But breedin', bless ye! There's plenty'll cock
Their chin, but still you know the stock.
So this is where Nelly Quine was livin'
For a housemaid with them. I don't know were they givin'
High wages or not; but it was a sort of a place
That was very grand, for Manx at laste—
The people was lookin' up to it uncommon—
And the misthress, you know, an Englishwoman—
And a hape of sarvints, and a sort of a style
With them altogether: and the best part of a mile
Of plantin' and that; and a gardener (Scotch)
And a butler with a gool watch—
And bulls, and hosses, and a little laddy
With buttons runnin' all over his body—
Style, you know—his name was Kelly.
So all that summer Tommy and Nelly
Was meetin' in the meadows there;
But still, for all, he didn' dare
To ax her would she love him a bit,
Only they'd linger a little, and sit
Till the bell 'd be out. And once she stayed
So long, you know, that she felt afraid
To go in at all; and cried and cried;
Aye, and wouldn' be pacified,
And wouldn' spake to him. And Tommy said
He was very sorry—but she turned and fled
Like a pigeon (you know she could run rather fast)
And away with her to the Ballaglass.
But when the winter weather come,
Mrs. Moore was keepin' the sarvints at home,
And a surt of a praychin', just to shuit
Their hours, and I'm tould it's well she could do't—
For the Captain and the son, ye see,
Were at church as strick as the pazon would be
So what was Tommy to do? Every man of ye?
What would you have done? Now, one of ye!
Spake now!—Billy!—all right! You'd ha' gone
After dark, and had some fun
At the Ballaglass? Well, there's a quid
For your guess! That's just what Tommy did.
But the fun? is it fun? aw no, no, no!
Poor Tommy! Bless ye! if he could only go
To the house at all, it was just as much
As ever he could—aw, bless ye! to touch
A thing she'd touched, a can, a besom—
It was wonderful the trifle 'd please him—
Pleasin' isn' the word! He'd get it
Away with him somewhere, and coax it, and pet it,
And listen (he tould me, and I wouldn' doubt it)
If there was any sound of her about it,
And put it back. Did he ever see her?
Never to spake to her—aw dear!
Says you—why, bless ye! you don't know the fellow—
He'd ha' been turnin' blue and green and yellow,
And red, and primin', and black and white,
If anybody'd seen him and brought a light!
Fancy Tommy in the sarvints' hall
At the Ballaglass, and ould Missis Ball
That was housekeeper, and all the rest—
And Tommy lookin' east by west!
No, no! but still there'd be gels about,
Bless ye! often slippin' out
On the sly, and there they'd wait and they'd watch
For the signs of the boys, and lift the latch
The way no finger on earth will guide it
But a gel's, when her lad is waiting outside it.
So that was Tommy's trouble, the sowl!
The poor little mortal! out in the cowld,
And no gel in his arms, nor him in hers,
That's better than mittens and comforters,
Out in the cowld—and cowld is bad,
But what was driving this Tommy mad
Was thinkin' if Nelly was one of the crew,
And, if she was, then who, then? who?
Who was the chap? And he'd be creepin' and creepin'
All around, and peepin' and peepin',
And seein' her shaddher on the blind,
And very nearly out of his mind;
And hearin' a click, and 'd have to jump,
And hidin' himself behind the pump,
And gettin' in the way of others that was lookin'
After their own sweethearts, and hookin'
Over into the garden, and stumblin'
Against some others, and all of them grumblin'—
And often chased, but never caught;
Till at last they got freckened, for of course they thought
It was ghosts; and—the night was very injurious,
Mrs. Ball was sayin'; but the boys was furious,
And had a reg'lar hunt, but no use,
For Tommy would dodge them, and off with his shoes,
And away like the wind. So the chaps was fo'ced,
As you might say, to give up the ghost.
But a terrible disappointment, it's lek,
For the Captain's gels was the very pick
Of the sarvints about—aw, splendid lasses—
Shuperior, you know, was the Ballaglasses.
So the chaps was comin' from far and wide,
Sulby way, Ballaugh, Kirk Bride—
Chaps, you know, that had any consate
Of themselves, and likin' to be nate
And dacent—dacent—none of your scum—
Why, light-keepers was used to come—
Light-Keepers! yes, and eireys too—
Eireys—'deed I could tell ye the who—
But still, for all, it's hardly worth—
Just the tip-top coortin' on the North.
And was Nelly one of them? No; and why?
Well, I'll tell ye the raison by and by.
But, of course, you can fancy the disthress
Of this poor little Tommy. I remember a vess
Of a little song he made—let's see—
How's this it is?—“I think of thee”?
No, that's not it—“So it's home——” —just so—
I've got it now—when he was leaving, you know—
On the blind, ye see. Renshent, that's Cain's—
All right! all right! I know what you manes,
Yes, yes! of course, that's the tune you're hummin' to—
The misthress and Tommy—that's just what I'm comin' to.
Well, I tould ye the way he was punishin'
These beetles and things—it was raelly astonishin'—
And stores and stores; and so, if ye plaze,
He took and made a sort of a case—
And every inseck with a little hook through
And a pane in the lid for a body to look through—
For you mustn' open—all hatches battened
On Tommy's decks; and the flowers he flattened
(And still there wasn' room for half)
In a big ould Bible he found on the laft.
And often of an everin'
The misthress would ax him to bring them in,
And Tommy would sit, and Tommy would 'splain—
And who so happy as Missis Cain?
Aw, 'deed she was happy though, for all—
“Yes,” the misthress would say, “he's small
Is Tommy,” she says, “but his heart—his heart
Is big enough.” And he gave her a start
Many a time, she said, to see
The perfect happy he could be
With nothin', and the full of it too—
Yes—and she liked his eyes to be blue,
She said, it was making them so clear—
Such room, she said, he had in them there—
Such an arch, such a spread, like the round of the sky—
No cloud, no shadow of a lie.
Some eyes, ye see, is nothin' but fog,
And some is just like weak grog;
And some is like leeches, and some is like slugs,
And some is like bullets, and some is like bugs—
Muddy, some is, and some is sharp,
And some like a cod, and some like a carp—
Differin' sorts. But Tommy's was loops
Of light in light, just hoops in hoops
Of soft blue fire, and feathered about
With a kind of gray fluff, and openin' out,
And out, and out—the eye of this chap—
Hoops, you know—like ye'll see a map
That's showin' all the planets and things,
And the sun in the middle, and rings and rings—
No doubt you've seen the lek in a book.
So the misthress would sit, and look and look,
And give a little nod, I'm tould,
And bless this Tommy in her sowl.
Well, troubles came upon him for all—
Troubles! troubles! where's the wall
That'll keep them out? As the Scripture saith—
Dig the foundation as deep as death:
Plumb it, and plaster it, every chop of it;
Build it to heaven and put glass on the top of it—
No go, my lads! you'll pay your fine—
And a chap that's in love should spake his mind:—
That's the thing. But this Tommy? What?
Shy? dear bless ye! But, whether or not,
He was over one night at Captain Moore's,
And watchin' the windows, and watchin' the doors,
And as silent as a little trout,
And a dale o' coortin' all about,
And chased at these divils, and couldn' see her,
And into the garden, and hid himself there,
Behind the summer-house—Holy Moses!
The smotherin' it was with roses,
Yandhar place; but only Spring
The time I'm tellin': but thatched with ling.
So there was Tommy aback of a bush,
When—aisy! aisy! hush, hush, hush!
Two people comin' on the walk,
And the nearer they come he could hear them talk—
Aw—Tommy, Tommy, Tommy mine!
The young Captain, and Nelly Quine!
Aw, 'deed it was! aw, 'deed for sure!
Nelly, and young Captain Moore—
The son—and into this arbour place,
And sat, and his arm around her waist,
And—the ould ould music, sweet and low—
Music! music! aye just so—
Whoever was the first to set it—
Music, music, wherever you'll get it.
And Nelly's tears was just like rain;
And Tommy could hear what the Captain was sayin'—
“Do love me, Nelly! do then! do!
Aw Nelly, the same as I love you!
Nelly! Nelly! I am in earnest—”
If that wasn' a burnin' fiery furnace
For Tommy—my gracious! he said the bite
He took of his tongue to try and keep quite,
And his head goin' round and round and round,
Till he thought he'd fall; but he held his ground
And they looked so lovely! he said—good Lord!
That's where, he said, it come very hard
On the leks of him—and he didn' know
Whether to stay, or whether to go,
Or what to do—but, rain or fair,
Of coorse he wasn' wanted there—
But—Nelly cryin'—and—Would he take her part?
But how? and the cables of his heart
Goin' crackin'. And then he thought, was it right
For him to be sneakin' there in the night
Like a spy upon her? for he wasn' apt
To be thinkin' evil, wasn' this chap—
No, he wasn', and he didn' now;
But he waited till, he couldn' tell how,
Nelly's head gave two little slips,
And—aw, poor Tommy! lips to lips,
Yes, yes! aw Tommy, my son,
You're beat! you're beat! the game is won!
Was and wasn'—and meant is meant—
But he picked up the bits of his heart, and went—
Bits! aye, bits! and a swish and a swirl
Of all his life, like the wheel of the world
Had gone over him with its lumbering load,
And left him dyin' on the road—
Tommy! Tommy! But, afore he got home,
He begun to think what good could come
Of work like that—and—“She's lost! she's lost!”
And he staggered, and his head was frost
And fire in a minute, and he turned to go back,
And—“I'll save her! I'll save her!” and he looked to the black
Black sky, and he shouted—“Nelly!” he said,
“Nelly! Nelly!” and fell like dead.
Aw dear! the little sowl!
And some chaps that was knockin' about on the sthrowl
Found him there, and picked him up,
And of coorse they thought he'd had a sup,
And home with him, and laughin' and jeerin',
And up to the door, and Cain appearin'
With a light, and terrible aggravated,
And—“Here's your Tommy, 'tossicated!”
And cuts. “Indeed!” says Cain, “indeed!
The pump, I suppose,” and wouldn' heed
For Tommy, whatever he could say—
“Drunk,” says Cain, and drags him away—
“Drunk,” says Cain, “indeed!” he says,
And Tommy that wake he couldn' resist—
And under the very pump; but then
The misthress came, and—“Cain! aw Cain!
Cain!” she said, “aw, listen, listen!
He isn' drunk, he isn', he isn'!
It's trouble,” she says; and—“Lave him to me!”
So Cain dropped him, and—“Come,” says she,
“Come in now, Tommy!” Then Tommy to ax
Could he spake to her alone? “The fac's
Is dead agen ye” says Cain; “but still—
Trouble—eh? well—pozzible—
Pozzible”—and shakin' the head,
And takes the candle, and off to bed.
So then it was that Tommy tould
All the secrets of his soul—
And Nelly—and how it began at Creer's,
When they were little things, and all the years
He'd loved her since; so she gave a smile,
Did the misthress, you know, and—“Dear me! child,”
She says—“that's not such a terrible case”;
And she took his hand, and she looked in his face.
“But now,” says Tommy, and where he had been
That very night! and what he had seen!
And the way the Captain was spakin' to her,—
“Captain! what Captain?” “Young Captain Moore.”
“Captain! Captain!” Aw, she dropped his hand,
And the two of her own was clasped in the one,
And pressed to her heart, like a man when he's shot,
And her face like paper, and just a blot
Of blood on her cheek, and drawin' her breath
All tight and shivery through her teeth,
Tommy said—like shot, he said—
And, if it hadn' been for Cain that was overhead,
There's no doubt, he said, she'd have sent a cry
Right up through the roof, right up through the sky—
Poor thing! to God Himself in Heaven,
But Cain was betwixt—and past eleven.
Now, what had Tommy done? You'll get lave!
He'd stumbled into an old grave—
Had Tommy, sent his foot through the lid
Of a coffin—that's what Tommy did—
Of a coffin, where her heart's true core
Was nailed down, stamped down for evermore.
That's what the misthress thought, it's lekly,
But I'll tell you all about it direckly.
Well, whatever it was, it was see-saw,
For a while at the misthress: would she hould her jaw
Altogether, or just to spake out
To Tommy at once, like a doubt in a doubt—
For to spake at all wasn' aisy to her—
And to spake to Tommy—that was more.
For ould sorrows comes over you sometimes
Like ould tunes, like ould rimes,
That's runnin' in your head, and makin' ye
A sort of happy, and sometimes they're takin' ye
Like the frost takes the whalers in the fall of the year,
And gunpowder cannot blast you clear.
And still, for all, she had to say something,
For of course this Tommy would think it a rum thing
For her to be carryin' on like yandhar:
And besides—she loved him—Alexandher!
I'll throuble you to look sirrious!
Loved him—that's the way it was—
Bless ye! and isn' it Natur tells us
To pour our souls into somebody else's?
And that's what she'd longed for, but hard to find;
So never couldn' make up her mind,
Part wondherin' if Tommy would shuit,
But stopped at the pint, and didn' do't.
But now—what was it she wouldn' dar'?
So she tould her saycret, so there you are!
Only just think now! Pazons and preachers,
Pastors and masters, class-leaders and teachers,
Shuperintendan's and conferences,
Archdeacons and bishops, and all their expenses
Paid. Think of that! the whole machine
That was workin' around her, or else should have been—
Priests and Levites, that was used to go
Every day to Jericho,
And back very likely—and never eyein'
The craythur that lay by the roadside dyin'—
And this little chap, that just kep' in his place,
Like a dog might keep, and look up in her face,
But looks like axin' her to tell—
Aye, that's it! aw well, well, well!
Now, listen! this is the way it was—
This Captain Moore, of Ballaglass,
The father, you know, when Misthress Cain
And him was young, lek the people is sayin'
Young and foolish—eh? but still—
Fell in love with her terrible,
And her with him. All right! all right!
True and honest as the light
Was Captain Moore. But what was the good?
Think of the fam'ly! think of the blood!
First-class—you know! the very first
In the Island—the very! and that's the worst—
What for won't people be content
With their equals? And—The heiress of Renshent??
I know she was, and a Ballarat—
But, bless my soul and body! what's that
When you're spakin' of Moores? It couldn' be,
Moores! it couldn'! don't ye see?
And they might ha' knowed it. And of coorse the fuss
His people was makin' was scandalous!
Dreadful! And its only raison too
His love wouldn' be that through-and-through
And deep and strong like the misthresses,
So that's, you see, the way it is.
And they had him away to England there—
(He'd ha' married her like a shot, never fear!
And half the parish at the weddin',
But he wasn' allowed, and so he didn').
And years afore he was back—behould ye!
He married the English lady I tould ye,
So that's, you see, the way it was done,
And settled down, and had this son,
Their only child, and spoilt him rather,
And went for a Captain like his father.
So Misthress Cain—that's Shimmin, you know,
That was then—was taken uncommon low,
And wouldn' ate and wouldn' spake,
And gettin' very thin and wake.
And it wasn' no matter what they were tryin'—
Aw, 'deed I believe she was out of her mind,
For a while, at least. And Parson Craine,
A rum ould chap that was vicar then,
Was axed would he come and pay her a visit.
So they tould him the way. “A dumb divil, is it,
She's got?” and they looked! “Aw, well, I guess
You'd better lave her alone!” he says—
Like maenin', It's well to be rid of their talk,
The women, you know. Aw, a hearty old cock
Was Craine, I've heard, a rael ould Turk.
So then the Methodists went to work,
And the lot of them hummin' about her like midges;
And got her to be a sort of religious;
Lek stupid lek, and very meek,
And had her converted in a week—
In a week she got pace; and rather blamin' her
The slow she was, like a sort of shamin' her.
Pace! Aw, 'deed, I'd aisy belave
She had pace; but was it the pace of the grave?
Well, well, there's many worse places.
Pace! it's a word I'm fond of, pace is.
Pace, pace from all her woes!
Pace, pace! God only knows—
Perfect pace—the people was say'n';
Perfect pace—and then—comes Cain!
Yes, he come—he come from the South,
And butter wouldn' melt in his mouth—
Yandhar man! And the holy, you never!
And getting the name, you know, of the clever!
At the Methodists—bless ye! brought him over
A-purpose to see would he do for a lover—
Renshent's heiress! aw dear! they knew
Which side their bread was butterin' too.
So nither way no love was meant;
She got religion (!), and he got Renshent.
She hadn' a notion, I expeck,
To have him for a husband lek
Lek husbands is, you know, but just
A guardian lek, that was put in trust
With her sowl, like a guide the Lord had given
To lead her studdy on to Heaven—
A Christian brother and a Christian sisther,
And if this Cain had ha' took and kissed her,
He'd ha' spoilt it all. But—cautious! cautious!
Bless ye! that's the stuff that washes!
And her to tell him the whole of her story,
And hand-in-hand with him on to glory—
That's what she thought—her foot couldn' slip
In such holy communion and fellowship.
The big Tom-cat! the smooth and the sleek
And the soft, and the whisker on his cheek
Just like blackin' on a boot,
And his nice white hands, and—ough! the brute!
And—“Oh,” he says, “the unselfish love!”
Renshent, you know, he was thinkin' of!
Aye, Cain—so the uncle come to die—
Him she was gettin' the proppity by—
And rather an awkward way he was givin' it—
And so they got married, and come to live in it.
And so you'd think they'd be goin' jog-jog—
Aw, bless ye! they turned a new leaf in the log
That day, they did; a leaf that was scored
With blood and misery, every word—
Death sealed it up at last, and tuk it
To owners, that has never bruk it,
And never will till God will sit
Upon His judgment throne—that's it.
Well, this Cain was not content—
He'd got the woman, he'd got Renshent;
But there was one thing he hadn' got,
The woman's love—he hadn' got that—
The bargain! the bargain! she didn' pretend—
A pious friend! a pious friend
Here below, and Heaven above—
And she shivered at the name of love.
Obey him? serve him? so she was doin';
But—love him? That's another tune.
She couldn', it wasn' in her power:
Her love was as dead as a dead flower—
Stick it in the ground! will it grow?
Mould it! water it! just so—
Will it blossom like the rod for Aaron?
Will it bloom and blow like a rose of Sharon?
Its stalk is bruk, its leaves is shed—
Dead! she tould him it was dead.
But the pride of the man! the pride of the man!
To think he couldn' get her love like land—
Rent it, or buy it, so much an acre—
That, if she wouldn' love him, he couldn' make her.
Make? make? make! No, you won't, my boy!
Let's have that joy! for it is a joy!
You can't! you can't! Oh, isn' it glorious?
Love victorious! love victorious!
Victorious—eh! ah dear! the strength of it!
And the height and the depth and the breadth and the length of it.
Make it—will ye? Make a woman's heart!
Scoop it, and scrape it in every part!
Send blood through its chinks, let it beat, let it burn,
Make what you like! make a tub, make a churn!
He was welcome to love her. But was it fair?
That's it! that's it! I have you there—
When she couldn' love him, and when he knew,
Was it fair for him—I'll lave it to you—
First to sulk, and then to complain,
Then ragin' fury, then sulks again,
Till he settled down in the dead sea
Of bitter hatred and cruelty?
Where was the saint that she thought would direct her
On the road to Heaven, that she thought would protect her
Against herself, against the love
That was still in the deep of her heart, and strove
With the love of God? Where was he to lift her
Above everything on earth that could drift her
From the anchor of her sowl
Sure and steadfast, like we're tould
In Hebrews?—do ye remember the hymn?—
Jesus, lover—Say't for them, Sim!
Can he? you're foolish! is it can he, ye said?
Now, then, Simon, go ahead!
Simmy repeats:—
One verse, that's enough, that's all we're wantin',
Just to show the way it's slantin'.
He could say every word. Well, you'll easy see,
He wasn' the man he was seemin' to be
When the misthress married him:—it was just like wakin'
Out of a dream; like a cloud'd be breakin',
Like scales goin' peelin' off her eyes,
When she saw what he was. There's some of them dies
Directly almost, and some drags on—
But she knew the man! she knew the man!
So that's the story she had to tell
To Tommy there—aw well, well, well!
Yes, she tould him—he didn' try to stop her—
But very nice, you know, and proper—
Like shuitable for him to hear—
Aw, that was the woman! never fear!
And—“Tommy, Tommy,” says Missis Cain,
“The curse is come upon them again—
The curse! the curse!” And—she'd send a letter
The very next day to Nelly, to get her
To come—and most particular.
And Tommy of course, you know, not to be there.
And so she did: so Nelly come,
And this Cain, for all, was away from home.
So ups with Nelly, and took and tould her
All about it. She didn' scould her—
No, no! not her—but just the way
It was; and the people had got it to say—
“What people?” says Nelly, and the stiff she stood!
“What people? if you'll be so good?”
“A friend of yours,” says Mrs. Cain,
“A lovin' friend”—“That's the people you mean,”
Says Nelly, as sharp! So she didn' deny,
Didn' the misthress, but fit to cry;
For she thought this Nelly was rather hard,
For a young thing like that, and wasn' prepared.
And bless ye! maybe a bit of a brazen,
Thinks the misthress: but everything in its saison—
I never wasn' for imprince—no!
I don't like it. But, even so—
Dear me! there's things—why, bless your noddy!
Musn' a body stand up to a body,
When there's one body botherin' at him,
And another body at the bottom—
And you don't know, but still you've a guess?
Ah! I'll tell ye what it is—
That's hard, if you like! your life, your love,
Your heart of hearts—and they'll take and shove
Their fist in there! aw, I know it well!
And no mistake about this gel,
No mistake! and the pride and the pluck,
And the touch-me-not! look out, my buck!
Will she? won't she? what's the use?
Aye, and see ye at the deuce!
As quite as a lamb, and as bold as a ferret—
Some women's got a terr'ble sperrit.
“He loves you dearly.” “Who loves me?” says Nelly,
“Who loves me?” and up with the head like a filly,
Like sniffin' the wind—they're splendid craythurs
Is them, lek accordin' to their nathurs,
Splendid—like sniffin'—“Who loves me? who?”
So the misthress tould her. “Aw, that'll do!”
Says Nelly—and a little laugh—and she says,
“I think I'll go now, ma'am, if you plase;
If you plase, ma'am, I'll be goin', I think”—
And the misthress felt her heart go sink—
But held on, for her sowl was cravin' to her,
This Nelly, the very first minute she saw her,
For she saw that she was the rael stuff,
That's it! and no matter for the huff—
Huffed! but wasn' it like prent,
The beautiful and the innocent?
The sweet and the true? But—whether or not—
Chut! the misthress loved her like a shot—
And how to save her? She seen the sowl
Was trimblin' all over, for she couldn' hould,
No matter the huffed—aw, hard to hide!
Love is a stronger thing than pride.
So the misthress tould her all the same
She done to Tommy, only the name
She didn' tell—but a gentleman
That was far above her, and how it began,
And how it ended—no doubt, for the best—
No doubt—but oh! the bitterness!
And “Nelly, I wouldn' be tellin' you this,
If I didn' love you—give me a kiss!”
And Nelly darlin'! and—Nelly sweet!
Then Nelly ran to the misthress' feet,
And laid her head in her lap, and flung
Her arms around her, and clung, and clung,
And sobbed and sobbed a good while—
Aw, bless ye! what was she but a child?
Then the mistress caught her round the neck,
And spread herself upon her lek—
Aw, Nelly herself has tould me—and she lay,
And the gathered, and sheltered, and hid away,
And nussed, and coaxed, and folded in,
She said it was just astonishin'
The complete the world seemed all to go
From her lek—that she didn' know
Nothin' at all, but just the door
Was shut on all sorrows for evermore.
But when Nelly got a bit peacefuller,
Then the misthress sthrooghed her hair,
And reddied it, and made it nice—
Dear me! the tender and the wise—
Eh? just so! till she brought it round
To spake about Tommy, and the way he was down
Altogether, lek low in his mind—
And the good, and the faithful, and the kind—
And—any woman, no matter who,
Might be proud to marry him;—and “it's you!
It's you he's lovin' more than his life!
Oh Nelly, couldn' ye be his wife?
Aw, try, Nelly! aw, I think ye could—
Aw, Nelly! there's no mistake he's good,”
But Nelly shivered in every limb—
And—“Oh! don't talk to me about him!”
She says, “for if he's as good as gool,
He's a fool,” she says, “and a stupid fool.”
My word! she was up again like fire.
But the misthress thought she wouldn' try her
That way any more, but just
To pet her, and coax her, the way you must
With the lek, you know, if it's peace you're for—
Or else, you know, look out for war!
Aye—but she got her as quite as quite
And then she went. But that very night
The misthress made up her mind to spake
To Captain Moore himself, to take
Some order someway with the son—
Hard it was, but it had to be done.
And she saw the captain; but what occurred,
To tell ye the truth, I never heard—
Only the misthress came home very weakly,
And off with her to bed directly;
And whiter till white; and it was raelly too much—
Ould love is a dangerous thing to touch.
But listen to me! Just a week after that
I was down at Renshent; and the whole of the lot
Sittin' up all night there in the kitchen,
Afraid of the storm, that was nearly hitchin'
The roof off the house—Nor'-West by Nor'—
Dead in, you know, upon the shore—
Great guns—and impossible for me
To get home, so stayed for company.
And Cain was there, with his face in a frown
Like thunder; but the misthress was lyin' down,
They said, in the parlour; very sick—
So these boys was up to every trick,
Pretendin' they had to hould the gels
For the freckened they were —dear me! what else!
And snugglin' up, and whisperin'—
And very lovin' and comfortin'—
And Cain someway didn' seem to be heedin',
And he had a book, but he wasn' readin'—
He seen them well enough, I'll be bail—
But he looked to be thinkin' there a dale.
But Tommy wasn' with them at all;
And so I says to Harry Phaul —
One of these chaps—“Where's Tommy to-night?”
And the wink went round upon me straight,
And nudgin' and lookin', till one of them said—
“Haven' ye heard—?” “Silence! ye jade!”
Says Cain, and looks at the gel like murder—
“This talk,” he says, “must go no furder—
It isn' accordin' to your station,
And it isn' to the use of edification.”
So the gel gave a frump, like dear me?
“Look here!” he says, “you're talkin' too free—
Yes—and very undesi'ble—
And I'll read you four chapters in the Bible
In a minute,” he says, “like a shot,” he says—
“Four chapters, every vess—”
Four chapters, if a finger stirred o' them!
Four chapters every word o' them!
“Silence! I say.” And he stamps the foot—
“A chatt'rin', aggravatin' slut!
But this young Baynes,” he says, “may ax
What has happened—I'll state the fax!
I'll state them,” he says, “ye jackdaw!
And every one of ye hould your jaw!
“This is the fax. Our Thomas Gellin',
For raisons best known to himself, has fell in
Love with a person they're callin' Quine—
Ellen; if I rightly mind.
Now, this gel was a sarvant in Captain Moore's,
That should have turned her out of doors
Long ago—but, however,—this Nancy—
Nelly, I mean, takes the Captain's fancy—
The young Captain's. They'd words—all right—
Him and the father—that's Wednesday night.
Thursday—that's yesterday—Nicky Freel
Brings the captain's yacht from Peel,
And anchors her inside the bay;
And there she was lyin' the whole of the day.
At six o'clock this everin'
This young pesson isn' in—
Nither's the Captain—can't be found—
And then, wherever she was bound,
This yacht they're callin' the Waterwitch
Is off to sea with every stitch—
And a woman aboord.—Well, it's nathral rather,
And, puttin' two and two together,
It isn' cuttin' it very fine
To think this woman is Ellen Quine—
No—so the people have got it they're off
To Scotland of course, and I'm tould their craft
Is small, and very bad prepar'd—
And certainly it's blowing hard—
And Gelling—that was allis short—
Don't take his affliction the way that he ought;
But's gone clane mad, and out on the shore,
And says he'll never come back no more—
See the carnal mind, see!
Where's his faith? perplexin' to me!”
And when he was speakin' there come a strain
That rocked the house—“It's blowin',” says Cain:
“Blowin'!” says I; “she'll never live!
That thing'll go down like an ould sieve,
If she tries her course—I know the boat;
But she'll never show the canvas to 't;
Her only chance is to run—d'ye hear!”
I was gettin' rather 'cited theer—
“And where'll she run to? I give you warnin'
That vessel'll be ashore afore mornin'.”
I tell ye the words were hardly gone from me
When the door burst open, and in comes Tommy—
And wet to the skin, and white as a ghost,
And his eyes all ablaze, and his voice all hoast —
And—“Run!” he says, “the lot of ye, run!
She's on the Rue! she's done! she's done!”
“The Rue!” I says, “just so! that's it!”
(The Rue is a point to the westward a bit)—
The Rue—“Come along!” says I, “let's slope!”
“Get a ladder!” I says, “and plenty of rope!
Light the lanthorn! bear a hand!”
Says Cain,—“You're quite a perfessional man!”
I raelly thought he was going to bother
About some humbuggin' thing or another
Even then—but he wasn' so bad as that—
'Deed he was as active as a cat,
Was Cain—and skilful, and houldin' out —
Under orders? no doubt! no doubt!
Of course! guy heng! and who was he,
To work a wreck, compared with me?
Well, I should think so! only raison!
And everybody in his saison.
The day was broke when we got to the Rue,
And there was the Waterwitch full in view.
She wasn' on, but very near it,
Just makin' her last tack to clear it:
They'd tried to anchor, but the cable went snap;
They'd tried her with the jib and a scrap
Of a mizzen, but it wouldn do—
Closer, closer to the Rue!
And, when we came upon the beach,
They were settin' the mainsail reefed to the leech—
And the only chance there was for the ship—
When there came a squall, and the mast gave a rip,
And out of her, and there she was!
Roullin' on like a dead hoss —
Helpless, you know, “Stand by now, men!
She'll strike, and strike, and strike again,
Afore she'll settle”—I says; and she gave
A heel to starboard; and then a wave,
Like an elephant, took her on his back,
And in with a run, and crack—crack—crack!
And then a scrunch, the way I said,
And the Waterwitch had made her bed—
Fast—stuck fast in a sort of a jint
Betwix' two rocks, that lay off the pint
About a thirty fathom or so,
And covered them; and the tide would flow
Maybe an hour after that—
Bless ye! like a mouse with a cat!
And the short seas herryin' her,
And the long seas buryin' her,
And the tearin' and sawin' on the rocks—
You could see she was breakin' up like a box.
So says I—“The work has got to be done!”
And sthrips—says Cain: “Go on, my son!”
“No!” says Tommy, “I'll go!” says he;
“I'll go!” he says, “it's me! it's me!”
“Look here!” says I, “just wait a second!
Look here now, Tommy! how long do ye reckon
You'll live in that sea? The very first flop
Will rowl ye over like a top.
Are you wantin' to get drowned?” says I.
“If I die,” he says, “I'd like to die!”
“Indeed!” I says, “aw dear! aw dear!
Whisper, Tommy!” and I stooped to his ear—
“Whisper—patience just a bit!
Maybe you're goin' to have her yet!”
Aw! I tell ye, he was just like a lamb—
Coaxin'! that's the way I am!
So I says to the chaps—“Is any one wantin'
This job?” I says, “for it's time to be slantin'.”
Not a word—“Are ye sure now?—Right as a riddle!”
And I ties the rope around my middle,
And ready coiled, and how—God knows!
But I shut my eyes, and in I goes!
And wasn' I divin' under the says?
Divin'! divin', if ye plase?
Teach your granny to suck eggs!
But it's terrible nasty about your legs
A rope like that—and payin' it out
Far too free—bein' willin', no doubt,
But no 'sperience, you know—hard work!
And no mistake! There was a regular turk
Caught me half-way—my eye! what a brute!
I raelly thought I'd never get through't.
And these chaps ashore—it's worse they got—
I'd a mind to go back, and kick the lot—
But—however—what with tuggin' and luggin',
And givin' and takin', for all their humbuggin',
Just when I thought I had enough,
Somebody gript me by the scruff,
And afore a man could turn on his heel
I had my arms round Nicky Freel.
No time for talk!—“The stump o' the mast!
Bear a hand, Nick! make fast! make fast!”
And gives him the rope—when there come a rowl,
And a bump! and I don't know in my sowl—
But he dropt it—Nicky? Out of his hand!
Dropt it! and these chaps on the land
Haulin', for all they felt the loose —
Haulin' away like the very deuce—
Like they'd got a whale—he dropt the rope—
Nicky Freel! like soap! like soap!
And him a sailor!—all very fine!
“Nicky!” I says, “Where's Nelly Quine?”
And I looked, and there they had her lashed
To the cabin companion—aw dear! the washed
The craythur looked, the washed and the wore—
Half drowned, you know—“I'll take ye ashore,”
I says, and the Captain standin' by—
“I'll take the young woman ashore,” says I.
He looked at me very hard, and then
He loosed the lanyarn, and—“Listen, friend!”
Says the Captain, “Suppose I don't live,” he says,
“To reach that shore, remember this!
Whatever happens, dyin' or livin',
Nelly's as pure as an angel in Heaven.”
And so he gave her to me, and so
I says—“It's time for us to go”;
And made her fast across my hips—
“Now, then!” I says, and in I slips—
Easy, you know, very easy, and humours
All I could, and makes these boomers
Ride me as nice as possible,
And treadin' the trough, you know; but still
She hung upon my back like death—
Not a word! no, no! not a sound! not a breath!
I thought she was dead—not the smallest tick
In all her body—so I struck out quick
And hard; but a sea come tearin' along,
And caught me up, and wrenched me that strong,
And bothered me, that the next that came
Knocked me over like a bame—
Senseless—like a log of timber—
And so, of course, that's all I remember
Till I felt the smell of a body smookin',
And a lot of people round me lookin',
And three of us side by side there lyin'—
The Captain, and me, and Nelly Quine—
Her in the middle—but they'd turned her head
Away from the Captain, because he was dead—
Dead, poor chap! But Nelly, the sowl!
Was sleepin' just like a two-year-old.
“Hullo!” says I; “hullo!” says Nickey—
Him that was smookin', and likewise Mickey—
Clague, I mean. So then they stated
How the young Captain waited and waited
Till he seen the lot of them landed there,
And then he jumped, and swam very fair,
Strong, they said, but cautiously—
When, all of a sudden! the boom, d'ye see!
That was soulgerin' about in the trough,
Gave a heave, and a drop! and hit him, my gough!
Hit him just aback of the skull,
And knocked him over like a bull—
Killed him, it's lek, upon the spot:
For when the body come in, they got
No signs of life, nor nothin' in it—
Killed him, I expec', that minute.
Aw, very bad! very bad!
And then we took and sent a lad
For a cart for Nelly, and another to go
So quick as he could, and let them know
At the Ballaglass. So we got the cart,
And Nelly a heisin', and made a start.
But the Captain's body was left in a cove,
And chaps to watch it. So on we drove,
And the poor gel there hangin' all of a dangle,
Sthrooghin' just the same as a tangle—
The limp, you know; and her clothes all twisted
And ruxed about her; and the way she listed
This way, that way—So we done our endeavour,
And up to the house with her howsomedever—
And Where to put her? and—bear a hand there!
And—“The hayloft 'll do for the lek o' yandhar—”
Says Cain—“The hayloft!” and I gave a star' —
“Is it wantin' to feed the rots ye are?
Haylofts!” I says. So he grunted though;
But what was he goin' to say I don't know;
For the misthress come, so soft and swift,
Like ghos'es comes, ye know—just a whiff
Of somethin' white—like an owl's wing—
And she ran at Nelly like a greedy thing;
And Nelly lifted up her head,
And fell in the misthress' arms like dead.
So Cain was lookin' rather foolish then,
And of course, you know, no use of men—
So we stood to one side; and, I'll tell ye what!
Every one of us off with his hat,
Lek round a coffin: and the gels there cryin',
And huddlin' and cuddlin', and Nelly lyin'
On the whole of their laps, and goin' a carryin'
In on the parlour, exac' like a buryin'—
And—to keep away! and the door shut;
So Cain stood glasses, and so I cut.
But Tommy? Tommy, did ye say?
Aw, he was over the hills and far away
Long afore that. And, dear me now!
You'd ha' thought ould Cain had ha' kicked up a row
About Tommy breakin' articles
Like yandhar—Noticin', is it? Bills
Of ladin', contracks, charter-parties,
And all the rest of it—go it, my hearties!
Breach of promise? Breach of something—
And ould Gelling, too! But that's a rum thing—
Just when you'd ha' thought the man'd been furious,
To take it that aisy—wasn' it curious?
Not a bit of it! bless your soul!
But you'll be tould! you'll be tould!
So Tommy was gone; but Nelly got better,
And then the lot of them was at her
To stay for a servant with them there,
And so she did: and the best of a year
No news of Tommy; but the people was sayin'
They were hearin' a sort of music playin'
In the air sometimes—like a sort of disthress—
Like a fiddle cryin' about the place—
Like a cry, they said, and a surt of a moan to it—
(I've axed Tommy himself, but he wouldn' own to it).
So the people said it wasn' right
At all: but Cain took a gun one night,
And fired it out at the front door,
And then they never heard it no more.
Aye, aye! but afore the next Mheillea
There was wonderful news of Tommy, I tell ye—
Just so! just so! aw, hould your luff!
Wonderful, wonderful, sure enough!
Well now, this is the way it was—
Nelly's father, ye see, was lost
Off the Shellags one night, with Illiam Crowe,
One-eyed Illiam? exactly so.
And the widda come down most terrible,
And all the mouths she had to fill—
I don't know the number—and it's hard for such,
And Nelly helpin', but it wasn' much—
What could she do? aw, a reg'lar battle,
And executions, and I don't know what all,
And the bed goin' sellin' from under them,
And all to that, till at last it came
She had to give in. And Nelly took heart
To ax this Cain to take their part,
Just, you know, to spake to the Coroner
For the mother, poor soul! that he wouldn' be purrin' her
To the road altogether, and no expense,
And did. But Tommy's tould me since
That Nelly was sayin' she'll never forget
The way he looked when she axed him that—
Poor thing! poor thing! but I'll be bail—
Bless ye! looks'll mean a dale,
A dale will looks: but helped them though;
And then the widda thought she'd go
To Douglas, to live with a sisther theer;
And so the Coroner got them clear,
Or clear of them. And so Mrs. Quine
Off to the sisther—but—very fine!
Sisthers! will they? Not a bit o' them!
Showed her the door, and all the kit o' them!
And too proud to go back—you know, the disgrace—
And Douglas is hardly a Christian place:
Bless ye! Douglas, of rule,
Is just as bad as Liverpool.
So she wandered about on the bare street,
And not a stockin' to her feet;
And worer and ragg'der, and thinner and starveder,
Till one of these bobbies took and obsarved her—
That's their word—and brought her up
Afore the High-Bailiff—not a bite or a sup
At the woman for days—and the childher all round her
Cryin'; and that's where Tommy found her—
In the Coort? In the Coort. “Is there one of ye knows her?”
Says the High-Bailiff: “I was used to, Sir,”
Says a little chap in the crowd; and, blow me!
If the little chap they had wasn' Tommy—
Tommy, for sure! And—“I'll take care o' them,”
Says Tommy there—“I think there's a pair o' them,”
Says the High-Bailiff, and he laughed, and he turned
The leaf of his book, and the bobbies girned —
Of coorse! of coorse! But still they were plazed,
Aw yes, they were, and the woman amazed;
But stuck to Tommy, and out on the door—
And—“Mind you'll not come here no more!”
Says the High-Bailiff. But when she got out,
And took a look at the chap, no doubt,
And seen the surt, she lost all heart—
Poor soul! and actual made a start
To cut and lave him. But Tommy caught her,
And Tommy entreated and Tommy besought her,
And these little midges set up a boo!
And the woman didn' know what to do—
“Tommy, ye dunkey! it isn' no gud!
Ye cudn'!” she says; “I cud! I cud!”
Says Tommy: “try me! try me!” he says;
“I've got a terr'ble shuitable place,”
Says Tommy—“Come, Mrs. Quine, aw, come!”
And so she went, but very glum—
Lek shamed, you know, at the undersize
And that, like thinkin' he wasn' wise.
So Tommy done the best he was able,
And took a lodgin' in Guttery Gable,
Or somewhere—just one room they had;
But he worked like a haythen naygur, he did.
And the woman wasn' a bad soul e'ther,
Only a little cretchy rather—
Cretchy, or somethin' of the kind,
And uphouldin' the days she lived with Quine.
She shudn'! No, of coorse she shudn';
But—that's the times she got the puddin',
Heavin' it down the sink, she said—
Plenty of butter to her bread
Them times, she said: you know their way!
Women muss have somethin' to say—
Muss—and—yes, it was rather hard
On Tommy. But, bless ye! he didn' regard.
Tommy had a hope in his bussum,
Had Tommy—and'd take the childher, and nuss'em,
Or wash them, or anything at all:
Till at last the sisther gave a call
One everin': and she saw the nate
And comfible, and—gettin' late,
And—could she sit till mornin' there?
And cuddled her up in a arm-chair,
And had her breakfast, and liked the tay,
And never left them anyway—
Pride, eh? Turn your back, and Pride
'll ate all you'll give him, and more beside.
And all in a little bit of a room
About the length of a lugger's boom—
And dacent lek, ye know, in their habits,
But all in a little room like rabbits.
Bless your sowl! there wasn' no harm in,
But the people said Tommy was turned a Mormon—
Two wives, they said, and it ought to be looked to,
And—Pazon Dobson should be spoke to.
So Dobson come in with a speech to make to them,
But he laughed that hearty he cudn' spake to them.
For, the time he come, they were goin' to bed,
And the women had rigged a hammock, he said,
And rove it up to the roof with a tackle;
And the minute they heard him, my gough! the cackle!
And “Tommy, you fool!” and “Tommy, you dirt!”
And Tommy standin' in his shirt—
“Here's Pazon Dobson! for all the sakes!
Tommy! ! ! ” and in a brace of shakes
Heaves, and whips him up to a bame,
Like a flitch of bacon, and makes fast the same,
And laves him danglin' under the laths,
And turns about, and smooths their brats,
And—“Good evenin', Sir!” and curtseyin'—
Aw dear! the Pazon laughed like sin.
And “Tommy, how are ye gettin' on upstairs?”
He says, and “Did ye say your prayers,
Tommy?” that's all, bein' giv'n to jokin',
And out, and down the sthreet, and chokin'.
But still a dale more dacenter
To have the falla slung up there—
Just a block, and a strong hook,
And a promise at Tommy he wouldn' look,
And then they could sthrip, and out with the light,
And in to the childher with them straight.
So that's the news that come to Renshent,
And Nelly had ha' took and went
Over the mountains like a shot
That very minute, but the misthress said not,
And coaxed and coaxed, and—“Nelly! Nelly!
You relly are too hard now, relly!
Isn' it all for you he's doin' it?
And it'll be your fault if he's ever ruin' it—”
And—to do unto others—“ar'n' we bidden?”
And—“Don't, Nelly, don't!” So Nelly didn'.
But still there was other things both'rin' the gel—
Cain? Aye, Cain—most terrible!
Aw, there's no mistake the man was bad,
At laste, ye know, if he wasn' mad—
A touch of both—I wouldn'thruss —
But Nelly didn' see it at fuss—
No she didn'—if you'd only ha' ast her,
She'd ha' said he was such a nice master—
Nice she'd ha' said, nice, d'ye mind!
Pious very, but terrible kind—
Kind she'd ha' said—such gentleness—
Such—that's the way the women is—
It's no use o' talkin'! they will! they will!
That's the way with the women still—
Kind and pious! folly and blindness!
That's the piety and the kindness!
Vanity and consate—that's it:
Well—howsomdever—just wait a bit!
But the misthress saw it—like a weather-glass
Is these wakely women; not a speck'll pass
But they'll have it there-aw, I don't know the wake
Or the what—it's lek the delicake,
And the hung that fine—but let that be—
They'll see what nobody else will see.
Aye, but there's more—there's more though still,
And so I'll confess it, aw, 'deed I will.
Do you know—ah dear! it's an ould song—
What it is to be right, and yet to be wrong?
Not her fault—no, no!—but look!
Swore upon the Holy Book—
Swore—d'ye see? Aw, it's no use denyin'—
Swore—and still, if the woman was dyin',
What could she do? She hadn' gorr it—
Love! what love? the only thing for it
Was death, not love: death, death's the cry!
Sell love? sham love? no, die, die, die!
But more than swore, more than swore—
Ten thousand times more! ten thousand times more!
Here was a man that was goin' to ruin
Most terrible—and whose doin'?
Whose? Aw, don't be hard! aw, don't!
Yes—she thought so, but me! I won't!
She thought so—yes, just what you'd expeck—
But, oh! be pitiful to the leck!
That's the thought that done the jeel,
Goin' like a threddle to a wheel,
Thrib-throbbin' night and day,
The wheel that spun her life away.
She hadn' loved him! and who could tell
What might have been? aw well, well, well!
I know, I know—if she could have done it,
If she could, if she could? but who begun it?
Who made it unpozzible from the fuss?
No, no, my lads! I'll not cuss—
But this if—if—if! what's the gud of if?
What'll it carry? what'll it lift?
If she cud—just the smallest taste—
Just so—if, if! in case, in case!
And all the rest of it, I suppose he'd ha' got
To be a reg'lar angel—what?
This Cain—an angel, cocked in a bush
Like at Moses theer—ah, I only wush
These if's were not so sharp and crook'd,
And catchin', and houldin', and gettin' hook'd
In the very flesh, and no aisin' to 't
Till Death'll haul you into his boat,
And wrench the hooks, and set you free
From all the throuble and misery.
Too late! too late! I'm glad it was—
The slack'd fire broke out at last,
Lek the Divil had lit a fiery sun
That scorched her face to look upon.
What! Cain? Yes, bless ye! plain as plain—
He didn' make no secret, didn' Cain—
It seemed as if all care was past,
It seemed as if he was happy at last,
Happy, happy, or goin' to be it,
And still this Nelly didn' see it.
Wonderful! wonderful, I've heard
About the state of her sowl! good Lord!
Yes—aw, yes—and'd give her instruction
Himself, you know—“The introduction,”
He was used to say, “of this young pessin
To the truth is deeply interessin'—”
A lamb of the flock, he said; aw dear!
And wolves, he said, prowlin' everywheer;
Wolves, he said; but the fold was near.
The scroundhrel-villyan! and allis tuk her
To chapel himself, and up and stuck her
In the front pew—and high and low
Could see, but Nelly didn', no!
Such a fatherly man, she thought, so good
And holy, you know; and there she stood
In the chapel, like a primrose in the spring,
And as sweet and as foolish as anything—
But others seen it—what? the gels?
Seen it of coorse—my gough! who else!
Likewise the boys—of an evenin' theer
At home you know—and the Book, and the cheer —
And—“Aw!” he'd say, “the power of grace!”
And put a finger in the place,
And his other hand on Nelly's head—
“The power of grace! of grace!” he said;
And pattin' theer, and the big smooth smile,
And—“The Lord is daelin' with this child.”
“Oh!” he says, “it's grace that's in,”
And the hand goin' sliddherin' under her chin.
And then he'd be readin' all the chapters
That's talkin' of love—“Oh!” he'd say, “the rapthurs!
The puffick joy! And lizzen to this!
Greet one another with a holy kiss!
See!” he'd say, “my childrin, see
The joy of Christian liberty!
If it hadn' been for the unrighteous leaven,
See what kisses we'd be hevvin'!”
“Dear me!” he'd say, “if you were all God's sons
And daughters, we might begin at once”;
And dhrops the book, and sticks his thumb in
His oxther, and gives a surt of a hummin',
And lookin' the way you could aisy tell he
'd like uncommon to begin with Nelly.
Did they wink? did they nudge? enjoyin' the spree?
Certainly, most certainly!
And sometimes he'd be lookin' very black at them;
And sometimes, d'ye know! he'd be laughin' back at them—
Actyall! yes! he wud, he wud!
Dhrunk? No—the pison in his blood;
Or— I don't know; but in general,
He wasn' takin' no notice at all;
But just like a body in a dhrame,
As sweet as sugar, and as soft as crame.
I believe in my sowl then—honour bright!—
The man was thinkin' he was all right.
Sometimes? Yes; and weeks at a time—
Lek nothin' in the world could annoy 'm;
Just azackly as if he was livin'
In another world, saved and forgiven,
With other loss and other gain,
With another Nelly and another Cain.
Decavin' himself? No, no! d'ye see!
Never not decavin' nobody
Such times—like settled long ago,
And no use to be spakin' nor nothin', ye know;
But just to be happy, and have no bother
This way that way, one thing or another—
Happy, happy; allis the same—
Just to go on, and dhrame and dhrame.
Raelly happy. For this Nelly at Cain's
Made the man's blood go sweet in his veins—
Lifted the falla up from the mire
Of his spite, and his hate, and his hell-fire;
Grew like a lily or a pink
'll grow by the side of some dirty sink,
Or a midden— Hard? No, I'm not hard!
A midden in a farmyard!
A midden, by gough! I'll stick to that.
A midden or a tanyard vat—
My senses! a midden 's twice too gud for him.
A beauty for pinks and lilies to bud for him!
There now, there now! Labour in vain!
You've got him, you've got him! So take your Cain!
It's no use, my men; keep quiet! keep quiet!
How could it be right? how could it be right?
Heaven above, or earth beneath;
Right is right in the Devil's teeth.
Lovin' Nelly! What did ye say?
That was sugar for any man's tay?
Certainly! and no thanks to be gud,
If you were lovin' her; I think you shud!
And her lovin' you—aw, at that price,
Ould Nick himself'd 'a' tuk to be nice—
Yes, there's no doubt; but I can't discover
How he had any right to love her—
Any right, or any sense.
Good grayshurs! he knew he hadn' a chance
To get Nelly to love him. What was there in him
But muck and mash and hissin' venom?
Could he love? He could hate—he hated his wife!
Put a dhrop of love into that man's life;
Run a river of love—what's the gud of it all?
It'd only turn to the bitter gall.
He had soaked himself in spite—d'ye see?
He had steeped himself in cruelty.
He was pison to the very brim—
All the love on earth couldn' sweeten him.
Plant a apple tree in a bog—will it root?
In a hungry bog—will it bring forth fruit?
Plant love in Cain—don't you know what would happen?
It wouldn' be love; it wouldn' have the sap in,
Nor nathur, nor nothin': it would breed grubs;
It would rot; it would stink. It'll do in dubs,
Will dirty water; but, so soon as it flows,
Stand to one side, or hould your nose!
Aw, he had to keep quiet—his only look out;
And as long as he could, there isn' no doubt
The man had a surt of happiness,
A surt of peace, a surt of rest—
A surt—but still he knew if he'd spake
One word that Nelly couldn' mistake,
One word! his dhrame would go like a puff—
That's what my lad knew well enough.
So he had to humour his dhrame that way,
To spin it out, to coax it to stay—
Lek all that was ever like to be—
And it made him as peaceful there, and free—
Bless your sowl! he was gettin' quite kind
To the misthress even, lek he'd made up his mind
Lek all to be happy like in a story,
Lek Nelly'd got them up to glory,
Nor where, nor when, nor how, nor who—
And the misthress to be in it too.
But who and how, and where and when,
Must have an answer, must, my men.
And so there was times when the divil awoke,
And see he was just the fool of a joke,
And sickened at these slops of love,
Or whatever trash he was dreamin' of.
And then the seven divils came
And filled his sowl with rage and flame:
And his shouldhers shuck, and his face fell,
And his heart was like a coal of hell.
And he'd take for the shore or anywhere—
Lek chokin', ye know, lek catchin' the air—
I've talked to people that heard him there.
It was hard to understand him rather,
They said, bein' mostly stormy weather
Such times he was after these games; and mixin'
Religion and that; but still they were fixin'
Putty middlin'; and the despard way
He'd shout to the land, and shout to the sea.
And—“God in Heaven!” he'd say, “O God!
I know Thy rod! I know Thy rod!
She can't be mine! she can't be mine!
O Nelly Quine! O Nelly Quine!
But why? Oh, why? Isn' there a place
In all the world, a little space,
Nowhere? nowhere? a space, a spot—
Oh, is there not? Oh, is there not?
God of mercy, in all these lands,
Where I can flee from Thy commands?
Somewhere! somewhere! there must! there must!
O God, I am but feeble dust,
A worm, a fool, a stupid liar—
O give me but my heart's desire!
God in Heaven! what's the gud o' me?
I cannot do the thing Thou wud o' me—
I was never convarted. I only shammed—
I'm lost already! O God, I'm damned—
I never loved Thee, nor Thy word—
Lave me to myself, O Lord!
I'm weak, O Lord, I can't stand firm!
What's all this bother about a worm?
Drop me! Lave me! What matter to you?
Give me Nelly, and that'll do.”
That was a praecher—rummish docthrine
For a man that knew the way, and walked therein
With sweet assurance—I've heard him talk—
Rather a curious road to walk!
But Nelly never knew a scrap—
Ye see, the parties that heard the chap
Was terbil deep Methodisses,
That's apt to hide a thing like this is,
Hush it up, lek thinkin' it best,
They're sayin', for the Chapel intheress—
Aw, crafty uncommon! a Christian brother—
Dear me, but they'll stick to one another!
But how was it the misthress didn' spake
To Nelly? Now, for God's sake!
To Nelly? The misthress? You havn' a grain o' sense—
Wasn' it just in Nelly's innocence
That the misthress had her only pleasure,
Her only joy, her hidden treasure
In Nelly's peace, in healin' the smart
Of the sore that was still in Nelly's heart?
In seein' her bud again and blossom,
That would ha' tuk her bosom
Every minute, and rocked her and rocked her
Like a baby there—and Cain for the doctor!
My gough! let's see—
Doctor Cain, M.D.—
And so long as the gel was cheerful
And happier gettin', the misthress was fearful
To move a finger—and she didn' know
About his tantrims. She only saw
The smilin' the man was got, and the silly,
And evident all by raison of Nelly.
And sometimes she started like a thing that was stung,
When she looked at the man, and seen the young
And sthrong he was seemin': and then she thought,
I don't know what! I don't know what!
Death, and darkness, and despair—
But other times, though, sittin' there,
Just the three of them, and no winkin' nor nudgin'
At these boys and gels, it was hard to be judgin'
And Cain that tuk up, and contented, and cuddlin'—
If it was only a piece of old man's muddlin'
After all; and, if so,
Then he was very happy, ye know—
And was she makin' him happy? poor woman!
Cud she? and mightn' the man be comin'
To an anchor lek in still water,
And Nelly to be to him like a daughter!
Besides the religion—aw, 'deed, I'll bet
The misthress was thinkin' a dale of that.
For, ye see, for all the good-hearted,
And the sweet, this Nelly wasn'convarted—
No—and still it was rather expected,
After all her trouble, she'd be directed
And that—you know—and only proper—
And even talk of Cain to adop' her.
So who was knowin' when it'd come—
The great change—very slow with some—
Yes, I suppose so—and to try to forget
The Captain theer—aw, they wouldn' be beat—
Poor lad! Was he in the same thrim?
I wondher what change there come to him.
“We shall not all sleep,” it says,
“But we shall all be changed,” same vess—
All, now? What is he maenin' by all?
A terbil hand was yandhar Paul.
But, I tell ye, it got so bad in the Chapel
That these unfornit locals had to grapple
With this question—that's what they called it—
And the Shuperintandin' overhauled it
One everin' with them, havin' come
Special o' puppose from Douglas, by gum!
Aye! but of coorse, you know, they'd contrive it
To be a meetin' lek in private—
Private, aw, private—yes, but still
The lek will out, of course it will.
So the meetin' was in the everin,
So the next day they summoned Cain
To appear before them—for divers grave
And weighty causes—aw, you'll get lave!
Like lawyers just—ould Bobby Kirkbride—
And as dignified as dignified.
But the chap that had to sarve this writ
Didn' like the job a bit—
No, he didn', aw, 'deed, no, man!
So he started off the very momen'
It was in Cain's hand, and he over the hill,
And heard him shoutin' terrible—
“Young man! come here!” but he didn' mind him,
But ran lek he'd got the Divil behind him.
But Cain to the chapel—and that's the place
They had the row, and every taste.
And who was tellin' me? Tellin'? tellin'?
Why, bless your souls! ould Harry Gellin',
Tommy's father; aye, but it was, though,
Just one day there shoein' a hoss though—
Aw, whatever there's goin', the blacks and the whites of it,
It's in a smithy you'll get the rights of it—
And him a local: but tuk the huff
About something, and left them long enough
After he was tellin' me the fun.
So Bobby Kirkbride it was that begun,
Bobby—and “Brother Cain,” he says,
“We're in a very great disthress,
Brother—very,” he says—“The Church,”
He says, “is troubled. 'Twere gud to search
Your heart, brother, and ascertain
How is it with thee, brother Cain.
It's for our brother's own sake,
And indeed the case is delicake,
Yes, it's delicake uncommon—
I may say it's about a young woman,
Livin' under your own roof,
I understand, but kep' aloof
From the rest of the sarvants. We've heard this;
And then, in this sacred edifice,
We're tould of conduck, as one might say,
Conduck, conduck, in a general way.
Furthermore, it's said in the neighbourhood
That this faymale pessin is well-favoured,
Also, we're informed her state
Is hopeful, or was, at any rate—
Hopeful—and makin' her to be
A pleasin' subject—spiritually—
Spiritually—in another respeck,
We've heard of captains and the lek—
We've heard, no doubt, and a trouble that came
On a fam'ly I'm not goin' to name—
A trouble, yes. So, if he's inclint
To clear his mind upon this pint,
We think, in a spirit of Christian unity,
Our brother should have a opportunity.”
And then he axed the Shuperintandin'
To open the Scripthar for their understandin',
If so be they might see the light,
And lead the doubtin' Church aright.
So then the Shuperintandin' prayed,
But very cautious, Gellin' said—
Cautious, cautious, like an ould drake,
And cautiouser still when he come to spake,
Eyein' Cain, ye know, that was theer,
Sittin' in the Communion cheer—
Bless ye! as happy as a bird,
Nid-noddin' at every other word:
And when the prayer was over, he set
The Amen as bould as a clarionet;
And slicked his lips like slickin' a label,
And cocked himself on the communion table.
So then the Shuperintandin' 'spounded,
And the way it was, and where they found it—
Corinthians—and Paul enlargin'
How a man is to do with his vargin—
If he thinks he's behavin' uncomely toward her,
St. Paul is sayin', he's bound to take order
To get her married some way; but still,
If the party's got power over his will,
And hath so devised in his heart says Paul,
He needn' marry her at all—
“That's Paul,” he says; “we've his own word,
It's only hisself, and not the Lord—
But I spare you, says Paul,”—and this and thus,
And whips them back to Leviticus.
And works the texes—But still, of coorse,
The law of Moses hadn' no force—
And then there was David, when he got ould,
And sufferin' greatly from the could,
Tuk yandhar Abishag, that nussed him,
And seemed to be a ancient custom,
But differin' from the case in hand,
And not the same for every man—
But no doubt, for the sake of the congregation,
Their brother would gev an explanation.
Says Cain—“It's beautiful, it is!
A splendid exposition,” he says—
“Splendid, splendid! Dear me! the way
That Scripthar was opened, just like day,”
He said, “like day. But how? But how?”
Was it larnin'? “No, I trow”:
Was it readin', was it study?
Was it pokin' in the muddy
Waters of the carnal mind,
Pokin', pokin', till you're nearly blind—
Was it? And he looked around,
And he smiled like butter a shillin' the pound—
“No!” he says, “it's just the habirtual
Comparin' spir'tual things with spir'tual”—
And—“Hem!” he said, and ups with the eyes,
And smacks his lips like somethin' nice.
Nice! by gough! aw, nice enough!
It was Nelly he was thinkin' of.
Aye, aye! it had got a name,
It was there, he was spoke to, it wasn' a dhrame—
Spoke to! spoke to! Yes, and, beside,
I believe the chap had a surt of a pride
The way he was lifted altogether
Above Shuperintandin's, or Locals e'ther,
Lek on wings of the mornin', and these craythurs to run
With their farlin' candle to see the sun
Just when it was goin' to rise—that's it!
To rise, to rise—that's the thing that lit
His face till it shined like polish just—
Heaven or Hell, love or lust—
Take your chise! but, as Gellin' 'd say,
It must have come from somewhere—eh?
“The exposition,” he says, “is grand;
But now let's come to the point in hand,
To the point,” says Cain; “I'm not deny'n'
A word that was said about Ellen Quine.
I think you'll allow it's only natur',
The way she came to us, we'd trate her
Special lek, bein' in a sense
Entrusted to us by Providence—
Trusted,” he says, “I think you'll agree,
Trusted to Mrs. Cain and me.
She come to us a poor lost sinner,
But we seen the seeds of grace that was in her,
And—the beauty, yes, the carnal beauty—
No doubt, no doubt; but what was our duty?
That's the thing. Our duty was plain
Before us—me and Mrs. Cain.
Seeds—now ought we to leave them there,
To be picked and pecked by the birds of the air?
To be choked with the thorns, to be burnt with the heat—
Is that our duty? I beg to state
It's not. No matter the time or the place,
Seeds of grace is seeds of grace.
To raise the fallen, to seek the lost,
That's our duty, whatever the cost.
But the gel is good-lookin'? that's admitted—
Is she any the less fitted
For a vessel of grace? Good-looks is fac's—
What is there in good-looks, I ax?
Must she be ugly? Is there anything carnal
In good-looks? Is the life etarnal
For ugly women and ugly men
Only? No, no! my brethren.
That's carryin' Election out of all raison:
The works of Nature, in their saison,
Might teach ye that. The very flowers
Of the field, God's work, you know, not ours—
Has the blossoms of Spring a lovely breath,
Or are they a savour of death unto death?
They're beautiful—aye! There ye gorrit!
Beautiful, and ye like them for it.
And then in the Bible everywhere
The beautiful the women are!
Not one neither, but every one of them,
Aye, bless ye! every mother's son of them.
They're all beautiful! Look at the way
They're in the picthars—as you might say—
Puffeck beauty, not a stain nor a spot,
Not an ugly one in all the lot.
Yes, and holy women, too.
Of coorse! of coorse! we've nothin' to do
With Jezebel and Herodias,
And hapes of the like, as bould as brass:
But Queen Bersheba that wouldn' be done
But she'd hear the wisdom of Solomon;
And the Shunamite, that we're taught to consider
A type of the Church; and—altogether—
What do ye say to the likes of them?
And ‘the daughter of Jerusalem.’—
See the Prophets, see the Psalms;
See that Hagar of Abraham's,
And Ruth, and Rahab, that hid the spies,
And Leah—only the blinky eyes—
And dozens more, if they were wanted—
See the way they're represented!
Beautiful? Of coorse they were—
Beautiful—and I'll tell ye the for.
It's a gift is beauty, a gift it is,
And used for improper pupposes
At the Divil—no doubt a snare to catch
Unwary souls: but God's his match.
This gift is His gift after all,
Not the Divil's, in spite of his gall;
And God is usin' it to bend
Our hearts, that so we may befriend
Poor things that has been led astray,
That so His banished may find a way
To return to Him; the effeck of whuch,
My beloved brethren, is such
That this beauty, this snare of the ould Dragon's,
Is the banner of love: ‘stay me with flagons
In the banqueting house; yea, comfort me
With apples from the apple tree—
I am sick of love,’ the bride is say'n';
And so with me and Mrs. Cain.
We love this young pesson; the Lord has guv her
Unto us that we might love her,
That we might lead her unto Him;
And if she was like a cherubim
For beauty, or just the vice versies,
We 'umbly thank Him for His mercies.”
And he stopped. To hear ould Gellin' arrit
Was good! he had every word, like a parrot—
Stopped a minute, did Cain; and the fashion
Of his face was changed, Gellin' said; no passion,
No love nor hatred to be seen;
But just the cunning of a fiend—
Cunning. And then he says—“The occasion
Was seemin' to want an explanation:
And now ye have it,” he says. “But still,
If you're only convinced against your will,
If this meetin' isn' satisfied,
Then,” he says, “I wouldn' divide
A Christian body,” he says; “no, no!
I can go,” he says, “and I'm willin' to go.
But,” he says, “I'll always be jealous
Over you with love: no malice
Has place in my heart, but only a yearnin'
In the bowels of the Gospel for them that's returnin'
Evil for good. But—no more of that.
One thing,” he says, “I musn' forget—
It's a matter of business,” he says, “I fear,
But better perhaps to have everythin' clear.
I'd be very sorry, certainly,
To give any truouble to the Cömmîtteë,
Or the congregation in general,
Very sorry: but—still for all—
There's certain moneys; and it's handy, rather,
For the man and the money to go together—
So no doubt you'll be makin' arrangements for payin'
The mortgages on the chapel,” says Cain,
“With all the interest that's owin',
For I think there'll be foreclosin' goin'.
But I'd better give you a day or two
To think about it—that'll do,”
Says Cain, “Good evenin'!” And takes
His hat, and a smooth of the elber, and makes
For the door.
“Stop!” says Gellin', “Stop!”
He says, and he gave a skip and a hop,
And got hoult of the door. “Stop!” like commandin';
“Aisy!” says the Shuperintandin';
“Aisy, Mr. Gellin'!” he says;
“Aisy? What sort of talk is this?”
Says Gellin'. “Aisy! I'd have you to know,”
And set to work, and gave them the jaw,
Most terrible—the way he was tellin';
Aw, by gogh! he could do it, could Gellin'—
Could and would—They'd heard a lecthur,
He said, about women that's drew in a pecthur.
Concubines, and ould men's misses;
Was this the talk for Methodisses?
Were they Protestans? See, then, see!
Wasn' this flat Popery?
What else in the world? “Pecthurs!” he says,
“Pecthurs, graven images!
It's as clear as daylight,” says Gellin'; but then—
The mortgages! And at it again.
Mortgages, he said, indeed,
He'd like to see the trust deed;
He called for it to be produced—
Yes, and he'd hev it. They couldn' be loosed
From the obligation under the Trust—
Was it gud in law? Was it right? Was it just?
Mortgages! There couldn' be—
And how about the mortgagee?
He could tell Mr. Cain, if he'd lent that money,
The position he was in was more till funny;
It was danger's it was, a reg'lar fix,
And he'd better be makin' quick sticks
To get out of it, or he'd see what the Coort
Of Chancery would say. And he roort
And he shouted: and he'd hev it tried,
He said, if it beggared him, if he died;
He'd take it to every Coort in creation—
It was just “a corrup' consideration.”
And Cain looked thunder, and well he might;
But the Shuperintandin' got a light
From all this talk; so he stroked down Gellin'
The best he could, that was puffin' and swellin'
Most awful—and then he turned to Cain,
And—“I think we'll let the matter remain
As it is,' he says, “I believe I express
The general feelin'—as it is, as it is”;
And looks round at the others, that gave a sort
Of a grunt or a groan, or a sniff or a snort,
Maenin' yes—and “Let us pray”;
And down on their knees and pegged away:
But Gellin' only said—Chit! and Chut!
And tuk and slammed the door, and cut.
So one Sunday though ould Cain was as clever
Fiddlin' there with Nelly as ever,
And wrappin' the shawl—and it wasn' rainy—
But just like the gel was made of chayney.
And Nelly as rosy as an apple
With the blushes, and linkin' down the chapel,
As happy, bless ye! and content—
Innocent! just innocent!
For the capers this Cain was carryin' on
She didn' hardly understan';
Only she thought it was maybe a way
With pious pessins—but as good as a play;
And the praecher lookin' rather glum—
But the hour had come, the hour had come!
Come, I tell ye! make or break—
For on the road he begun to spake
About the young Captain, and worked it round,
Till she must understand; and she gave a bound,
And off like a deer, and the night was black,
And this rascal couldn' follow the track,
And lost her there; but Nelly went
Across everythin', everythin', straight for Renshent.
Ah, think! what would the poor craythur be?
Just mad with fear and misery!
The misthress! the misthress! That was her thought:
She wasn' freckened to be caught—
Poor thing! not that—but there! oh there!
To be with her! to be with her!
Safe, safe with her! And just the strength,
And in on the parlour, and fell full length
At the misthress' feet, And—what was there at her?
And—“Nelly, Nelly! what's the matter?”
And never a word, and never a moan—
Poor Nelly lay as dead as a stone.
But coaxed her, and petted her, and raised her—
And—“Nelly, Nelly!” and 'mazeder and 'mazeder.
“What is it, Nelly?” (you understan'—
A pious man! a holy man!
Where was he? Ah dear! What odds?
The heart of an innocent gel is God's—
Let scoundrels skulk, let divils chafe!
Nelly was safe! Nelly was safe!
Safe with the misthress). But when she woke,
And when she looked, and when she spoke,
And when she tould—the misthress heard,
But she didn' say a single word,
But turned like a sheet. It had come at last,
And the bitterness of death was passed.
“Misthress!” says Nelly, “Misthress! mother!
My own! my own! for I haven' no other,
Or if I have—O kindest friend!
O sweet! O good! O . . . mother then!
Mother, my heart is like to break!”
But the misthress, you know, she couldn' spake—
“O Misthress, is your heart turned hard to me?
O Misthress, won't you spake a word to me?
Just a word! a word! Oh spake
Any word—for Jesus' sake!
Am I a naughty gel, Mrs. Cain?
Am I? am I? I didn' mane—
Misthress! Misthress! I didn' know—
Am I! am I! Must I go?”
But the misthress sat in her chair quite stiff—
So Nelly got in a sort of a tiff,
Lek, you know, the way with such,
Half-cock, hair trigger, and off with a touch—
That was the wuss o' Nelly, aw yes!
'Deed it was, and 'deed it is.
But—dear me! clean your own winder—
Flint is flint, and tinder is tinder—
And knew no more till the man-in-the-moon
All the mischief she was doin'—
Nelly! Nelly! And “Misthress,” she said,
And she stood on her feet, and she back with the head,
And her bonnet fell off and draggled there—
“You won't hear, you won't hear!
I'm not worth, I suppose; I see't! I see't!
I'm only the dirt beneath his feet!
I'm no matter. I haven' a friend,
And you think I'm a liar, and—there's an end!
I believe ye knew! I believe ye knew!
Yes, I do! yes, I do!
I believe ye made it up between ye,
And I'm sorry the day that ever I seen ye.”
Quick work—you'll say; aw, quick is the road;
But oh, if Nelly had only knowed
What the misthress was feelin' then!
But—however—what's the use, my men?
So Nelly gave an awful cry,
Like the yowl of a dog, but no reply
From the misthress, no reply at all.
So she took her bonnet and her shawl,
And away, and locked herself in her room,
And left the misthress to her doom.
And the sarvints was freckened, and didn' go near,
But they heard the misthress on the stair
Lek staggerin' lek—and then—no more,
Not even a foot upon the floor—
And sat up for Cain: but he didn' come in
Till daylight, and blew about with the wind,
They were sayin', rather, and up to bed—
And there was the misthress lyin' dead!
She was lyin' dead. Pison? yes!
A mug of it upon the chiss —
Pison, though—poor thing! she was gone
To the happy place, where it's all one—
Prepared? aw dear! what is prepared?
And the ould murderer stood and stared!
And he shouted? Yes, enough for three!
Shouted—but not immadiently.
No, no; but aisy! wait, then, wait!
Don't get 'cited, at any rate!
Well, now, you may think the work
There was in that house; and Christy Quirk,
The Coroner, comin' and the inquest arrim,
And everybody on the farrim
Callin' there: and couldn' agree
For temporal insanity;
But just it was pison, pison—what's
The name of that pison they're given to rots?
But by whose hand administered—
Minis, minis—that's the word—
I think so. Well, they couldn' say;
So to bury the body anyway,
And service over it all right—
And so they did, but late at night.
And poor Nelly, they said, was just like a ghose,
Creepin' about, and packed her clothes
To be off; but the women coaxed her for all
To stay with them over the funeral.
But Cain knew well that she'd settled to lave
When the misthress went out: so before the grave
Was filled—aw, bless ye! hardly a spatter
On the coffin-lid, he was home and at her—
Aye he was, and had some tay
In the kitchen, and tould the rest to stay
Outside till he'd want them in to prayer;
But he'd something very particular
To say to Ellen Quine, he said—
Yes, indeed! and so he had.
And—would she forgive him? That was the game,
Would she forgive him? He felt the shame
Of his conduck the other night—aw dear!
The shame, he said, but still it was clear
He was left to himself, he said, that time—
And would she forgive him? and would she try him?
What was man? he said—the best,
He said, the very holiest?
No doubt, no doubt, he said, it was sudden:
But what was he to do? He couldn'
Allow her to go, and his heart to break;
And if he didn' spake now, when was he to spake?
It was his one chance, he said, and he took it;
And the dear departed would overlook it.
And Nelly tried to stop the man—
But, bless me! she said, the tongue of him ran
Like a wheel, she said. And would she be this?
And would she be that? and all the list
Of the things he'd do, and the things he'd give her—
And—“I will! I will!” and on like a river—
And promisin' the kind(!) he'd be—
And—“Oh, I'll make you happy!”says he,
And—“Will ye, will ye be my wife?”
And he stopped to get wind. “I'll send this knife,”
Says Nelly, “through your black heart,
If you'll spake another word.” The start
He gave! and the cup fallin' out of his hand!
“Through your black heart, you bad man!”
Says Nelly, and she took a step
Towards him, and the fella kep'
His eye on her still; but he backed and backed,
And out on the door; and—aw, it's a fact,
Nobody said another word
About prayers that night that ever I heard—
No: and next mornin' the gel was sayin'
Good-bye to them there, when in comes Cain.
“Clear out of this!” says Cain to the gels:
“I must spake to this pessin, and nobody else
Is wanted here.” So of course they went.
“Now, Nelly,” he says, “you're leavin' Renshent;
And you'll return,” he says, “for Lammas,
And marry me. Promise now! promise! promise!”
But Nelly made a dart at the dresser,
And had a knife in a minute, bless her!—
The gel was quick. But Cain gave a sign,
And two policemen, that was eyein'
The whole, unknownced, gript Nelly, by George,
Like a shot,—and “I give this pessin in charge
For the murder of Mrs. Cain,” he says;
And he stands like a rock, and his hand in his breast.
Poor Nelly! poor Nelly! and haulin' and pushin',
And a car there to take her to Castle Rushen.
But just when they started he tried once more,
And stooped, and whispered somethin' to her.
But the people didn' hear what he said,
And Nelly only shook her head—
And, “All right!” and nothin' more to say with them,
And up goes the driver, and off and away with them.
The divil! I think I see his hoofs!
But he'd got his proofs, he'd got his proofs.
His proofs—aw yes: for who was it bought
This pison but Nelly, that little thought
What was goin' to happen: and then the fight
She had with the misthress that very night—
The servants would swear to as soon as wink,
And lookin' middlin' ugly, I think.
Now, when Tommy heard this news,
He was clane crazy. “Don't be a goose!
Don't be a goose!” says Mrs. Quine;
“Of course the case will be goin' a try'n';
And Nelly was allis a bit of a fury,
Aw, 'deed she was: but no doubt the jury
Will consider the young the craythur's yet—
And it's only transportation she'll get.”
“Transportation!” says Tommy, “and me!”
“Well, well,” says Mrs. Quine, “we'll see.”
“See!” says Tommy, “I'll go to Duddon
This very minute.” “Well, I wouldn',”
Says the mother, “I wouldn' be so selly.
She was allis very short-tempered, was Nelly.
And Duddon the very first lawyer goin'.
Duddon! Bless ye! it's only throwin'
Your money away—it is, indeed!
And, goodness knows, there's not much need.
Look at the childher!” and so she went on.
And, “Stop now, Tommy!” but Tommy was gone.
Ye see the chap was doin' fair:
He'd got in with some masons and builders there—
And contraks and that, and good at the measurin',
And plannin', and cipherin', and takin' a pleasure in
All sorts of inventions, and layin' the gas—
Aw, bless ye! makin' money fast.
But Duddon that was the chap for the law—
Terr'ble, but terr'bler for the jaw—
Aw, a mortal hand! He's laid on the shelf
Since then. But he'd bully ould Harry himself
Them times. Aw, bless ye!—fire and slaughter!
Put Duddon on them, and they'd cry for quarter.
So it's Duddon Tommy wanted to see,
And tould him all; and, “Lave it to me!”
Says Duddon, and bitin' his pen, and lookin'
As deep as deep: so Tommy was hookin'.
Poor Tommy, though—the shaky and shivery
He was. And “The General Jail Delivery”—
That was the time. And them words seemed cut
In every stone the craythur put
In a wall. They seemed to be wrote in the air,
On the sands, in the harbour—everywhere.
And Tommy got lave for the mother and aunt
To see this Nelly. And so they went,
And Tommy with them, in a car,
And into the Castle; but didn' dar'
To go in the place where Nelly was,
But pretended to be lookin' after the hoss.
And Mrs. Quine was weepin' a dale,
And the sisther, of course she wouldn' fail—
Aw, dacent women! But when they were done,
And just sittin' together, the mother begun
To ask a hape of questions, you know;
And this and that, and terrible though—
Till at last she said, “And, Nelly, then,
What did ye give her the pison in?”
Aw, Nelly jumped to her feet, and she turned
Away from them, and the cheeks of her burned
With fire and shame; and she wouldn' spake,
And didn'—and so they had to make
Tracks of coorse; and—“She's very queer!”
Says the mother to the jailer theer.
But just it was goin' about a week
To the trial, Duddon sent to speak
With Tommy. And—everythin' was in train;
But he'd like to have a talk with this Cain.
And would Tommy go with him at once? and statin'
The for. And the two of them off in the phaeton.
So when they got there, it was—“How do ye do, sir?”
“You know me,” says Duddon. “Who wouldn' know you, sir?”
Says Cain, very smilin'. But when he seen
Tommy there, his face got as keen
As keen; and—“Thomas Gelling, is it?”
He says, and “What's the cause of this visit,
May I ax?”—quite stiff, ye know. But Duddon
Wasn' the chap to wait for the puddin',
But in it at once: and—“A pessin is lyin'
In the Castle, by the name of Quine—
A servant of yours—in custody,
Upon your information, it seems to be,
For murderin' your wife by pison.
Now, Mr. Cain, it's very surprisin'
You don't perceive how much better
It would have been for ye all to have dropped this matter.
If your respected pardner had died
By her own hand, by suicide,”
There you were: but there was people enough
That didn' know when they were well off.
And the jury hadn' seen their way
To “temporal sanity,” and he dare say
He could guess the raison. “But I don't care a toss,
It was suicide, and you know it was!
That's my conviction, and you can't remove it;
You know it, my friend, and you can prove it—
Yes, you can. And look here, Mr. Cain—”
And he eyed him sharp—“Look here, I'll be plain.
There's no doubt at all the law will considher
The two of you to be in it together,
Her the insthrument, and you—
Well, Mr. Cain! But here's my view—
Mr. Cain, Mr. Cain, the law'll go furdher,
And bring you in yourself for the murdher—
Yourself alone!” (Ould Cain gave a jerk)—
“So just you set your wits to work,
And give me that proof—you know what I mane—
Or I'll have you arrested, Mr. Cain.
By this time to-morrow—the proof! d'ye hear?
So now you know the way to steer.
Good-day, Mr. Cain—” and turns on his heel.
That everin' Cain was off to Peel,
And a Tommy Artlar in the bay,
And her anchor tripped, and goin' to sea
Directly. And Cain just settled his passage,
And sent a passil and a message
By a chap on the pier—aye! it's a fac'!
And away to Ireland aboord of this smack,
And got the steamer at Queenstown, bedad!
And off to America—Catch my lad!
Apt to come back? Indeed he isn'—
If he'd show his nose, he'd be clapt in prison
Like a shot—not him! else what did he run for,
Eh? and so that villyan is done for!
But what was this paper? The paper! wup!
This was the paper. When Cain went up
And found the misthress lyin' dead,
He found this paper on the bed,
And took it, and read it, and kept it by'm—
The dirty rascal! all the time.
This paper was written by his wife,
And statin' the tired she was of her life—
And the wishful to die—that's the way it was tould—
And the Lord to have mercy upon her sowl!
And somethin' about her weddin'-ring—
Disthracted lek; poor thing! poor thing!
So the trial was held, and the jury sat,
And—“Appear to coort!” and all to that—
And Duddon got up, and the speech he made
Was grand—aw, bless ye! he knew his trade—
And the foreman at them was Corlett the Draper—
And Duddon handed up the paper.
And the Deemster read it, and “Do ye agree?”
And “Not guilty! not guilty!” what else could it be?
“Three cheers! three cheers!” aw, I'll engage—
And the Deemster black in the face with rage!
And Tommy outside of the Castle wall
With a car; but he hadn' the mother at all
That time: and Nelly, and the people expectin'
Lek she'd go to Tommy, lek a sort o' directin'.
And in with her straight, and stooped the head,
And—“You've beat me, Tommy! you've beat me!” she said.
But, half-way to Douglas, this Nelly got bouldher,
And the head was slipt on Tommy's shouldher,
And the whisperin' in Tommy's ears,
And his arm round her waist, and tears—tears—
Tears—I'll lave it to any man livin',
Sweeter to Tommy than the rain from heaven.
And so of coorse they got married at once?
Bless ye! where would be the sense?
But it's married they got; and this little wutch
Worked with Tommy, and Tommy got ruch.
And the farm on the North—Renshent, ye know,
Was comin' to the heir-at-law,
That lived in England, and willin' to let it,
And Tommy terrible wantin' to get it,
And got it—the very primmisis,
And there he is now—aw, 'deed he is!
It was only last year I had a spell there,
And Tommy and Nelly and me and the childher
Went out for a walk on the Mooragh there,
Just to enjoy the lovely air:
And we took for the beach, and we come to the Rue,
And Tommy looked, and I looked too—
And we thought, you know; but it wasn' grief—
And the water floppin' upon the reef—
And the little things busy with their play—
And Nelly as happy as the day.

FO'C'S'LE YARNS

Second Series

DEDICATION

[Dear countrymen, whate'er is left to us]

Dear countrymen, whate'er is left to us
Of ancient heritage—
Of manners, speech, of humours, polity
The limited horizon of our stage—
Old love, hope, fear,
All this I fain would fix upon the page;
That so the coming age,
Lost in the empire's mass,
Yet haply longing for their fathers, here
May see, as in a glass,
What they held dear—
May say, “'Twas thus and thus
They lived”; and, as the time-flood onward rolls,
Secure an anchor for their Keltic souls.

I
THE DOCTOR

Stories! stories! nothin' but stories!
Spinnin' away to the height of your glories!
And if I must, I suppose I must,
And you suspectin', I wouldn' trust,
And sittin' there all the time, and thinkin'—
Is it true he's tellin'? and nudgin' and winkin'.
Now, bless my soul! what for would I go
To tell you lies? You're foolish though!
And there's odds of lies, for the matter of that,
For there's lies that's skinny, and lies that's fat;
And lies in fustian, and lies in silk,
And lies like verjuice, and lies like milk;
And lies that's free, and lies for sale,
And rumpy lies, without a tail;
Grew in the garden and picked in the woods,
Bubbles blew with the divil's suds;
Lies that's sweet, and lies with a stink at them;
Lies like the dew that'll go if you wink at them,
And some as hard you couldn' break them
With a sledge —aw, my lad knows well how to make them!
Haven' he got the tools to his hand
Down there? And the fire! Aw, he works them grand!
For it isn' every fool that's fit
To make a rael good lie, that'll sit
On her keel, and answer her helm—no! no!
Just try it, Bob! Just try it though!
Well put together! you're took on the sudden?
You couldn'? Didn't I tell ye ye couldn'?
Lies! what lies! the things I'm tellin'
Is the abslit truth—ax Neddy Crellin!
Ears is ears, and eyes is eyes,
And fax is fax, and that's the lies!
The Docthor! The Docthor! well, well, well!
The Docthor! poor ould Docthor Bell!
Aw, I liked that man—I did though, for sure!
Uncommon good he was to the poor!
And free and hearty, but never much
Of a quality Docthor, nor regardin' for such;
Nor buckin' up, the way he might,
But proud to the lek, and very quite;
And keepin' back—aw, keepin' back
Reg'lar, and allis very slack,
Such times that they'd be sendin' the gig,
Or the horse, aw, he didn' care a fig,
But take his own time, and the coachman swearin'
At the door, for an hour, and the Docthor hearin',
And takin' no notice, but readin' the paper,
And “Doctors is chape, but time is chaper.”
And rap-rap-rap, and ring-ring-ring!
And the Doctor as happy as a king!
And—“The missis is took very bad with them, sir!
And you're wanted most partikkiler!”
And—“I got the gig,” and “are you asleep?”
“Aw, she'll keep,” said the Docthor, “she'll keep! she'll keep!”
Aw, middlin' rough, I tell ye, eh?
Rough and careless lek that way.
For he didn' want their company
Nor their money neither, aw, he'd let them see!
But if a poor man's wife was shoutin,'
Or some ould granny's innards routin',
Or fever, or fits, or tight in the breathin',
Or a child screwed up agate o' the teethin',
Or drowned, or run over—no matter what!
Out on the door, and off like a shot!
Rich he wasn', nor never could be.
Savin' he wasn', nor never would be—
Aw, the hand in the pocket, and out with it all—
As natheral, as natheral!
But the all wasn' much—aw 'deed it wasn',
Maybe only a key, or a lump of rosin,
Or a bit of string, and pokin' and pokin',
And heisin, and divin', and allis jokin';
But gettin' very red in the face,
And divil a screw. And the shamed he was!
And—“Never mind, Docthor! aw, never mind!”
And—Wasn' he kind, and wasn' he kind!
And—The will was as good as the deed, for all;
But bless ye! of coorse there wasn' no call,
Nor the one of us wanted a penny of him,
Faith! it's a deuced sight rather we'd gav' him.
A Docthor! aw, it's right no doubt—
Somethin' just to be haulin' out
For the kids—a lozenger or the lek—
Of coorse! of coorse! one might expec'—
But money! We war'n' that poor! Didn' Peter
Find it in the haddock? And hav'n' the crayther
Got the mark of the ould chap's thum'
Where he squoze it? But as for a drop of rum,
Or whatever was goin'—gin, or brandy,
Or jough, or the lek, it come very handy
To the Docthor, I tell ye; aw, never say no!
“Thank you, kindly,” and down you go!
Aw, he could do well with it, he could!
And 'deed I'm thinkin' it run in the blood.
And nice it was to see him takin' it,
Smilin' that way, and suckin' and slakin' it
Sweet in his throat, and the very belly of him
Risin' to meet it, and warming the jelly of him!
And—“My cumplimans!” and the twist of the hand!
Aw, the rael fine ould gentleman!
Now, a drunken docthor is rather danger's,
You'll be sayin', and aisy might seem to strangers;
But them that knew him knew the differ,
For never no man was brewin' it stiffer
Till the Docthor, mind! But give him fair play!
Five glasses or so, and, by gough! I'll lay
It was only the steadier he got—
And the head that was at him—as round as a pot,
And as big as two—aye, big altogether,
A fine strong man for any weather.
Aw, the Docthor had room! for there's chaps that small
And pinched in the guts, they won't do at all,
Nor can't hould on. Chut! Botheration!
The Docthor had the accommodation!
And if so be he was sprung a bit,
He knew himself when he wasn' fit,
And wouldn' stir—aw, steady still!
And sensible! allis sensible!
“I'll just look round in the mornin',” he'd say,
And of coorse they had to go away.
But clever! bless ye! that's the man
That was the clever! aw, a terrible hand!
With the bleedin' and that, and, high or low,
What was there that he didn' know?
'Arbs and roots and putrifactions!
Bills o' passils and vulgar fractions!
Birds and beasts. Like Solomon
In Kings it's tellin', ould David's son,
The wise he was, and put in the Bible,
For the wise he was, but unfornit li'ble
To women, and that's the way it is,
There isn' one of us hasn't a list
To port or starboard, either way—
“Some likes coffee, some likes tea!”
Well, he was clever though—let him alone!
Every jint and every bone,
And every stave in your body—chut!
I believe the man could have made a foot,
Or a hand every bit as good as new,
And put it on with a slick of glue
Or the lek, and bless me! ye wouldn' have knowed
(The natheral) it hadn' growed.
Didn' he take a man's inside out,
And claned it and turned it round about
And in like a shot, and livin' still
As comfible as comfible!
Aye, aye, did he! And a fellow's head
That was broke at a gauger and left for dead,
What did he do but trimmed it a bit,
And put another lid to it
As nate as you plaize, and says he to the gauger,
“You'll not break that in a hurry, I'll wager!”
I know the man, a chap with one eye,
And gove to fightin'—and divil the lie!
I don't know in my senses had he a charrim
For everything, for the books that was arrim!
And the picthers—aw, you never saw!
Pieces o' pessons—all as raw
And red as the shambles—painted lek,
And some all over a sort of a speck,
Like these dirty flies agate o' the beef,
And things in bottles that come to grief,
Bein' meant to be born, but never wasn',
Soakin' in spirits, and never a pazon
Done nothin' for them, but spoilt in the moulds
Someway—bless their little sowls!
And hadn' he a skeleton hung
Behind the door? And the way he flung
His dry ould chopsticks round ye! grippin',
And grinnin'; and you goin' duckin', and dippin'!
And houldin' on with a click of a spring
Made fast to the hinges, all bones and string
And wire, and a kind of a sort of a trigger,
And rittle-rattle, the boosely ould nigger!
And knives and screws, and prokers and lances,
It was fit to frecken you out of your senses:
It was, for sure. And a big white dummy
With cipherin' on his head; and a mummy
Brought from Egypt at some French divils,
And catgut, and pinchers set on swivels—
And— God knows what! But it wasn' them!
No! that wasn' the way it came
To the Doctor, but just the head he got,
And the heart, and knowin' every dot
Of a man, and lovin' them, and thinkin'
What were they like, and their eatin' and drinkin'—
Proud, lek proud, and rejicin' in them—
And if the divil was to win them,
Still there was the man, and the beautiful art
That was took to mortise every part,
And the power that was in, and the putty jined,
And plaised and happy in his kind—
Man to man—aye, that's your size,
That's the thing that'll make you wise—
That's the plan that'll carry the day—
Lovin' is understandin'—eh?
Lovin' is understandin'. Well,
He'd a lovin' ould heart, had Docthor Bell.
But careless—very careless, though—
Bless ye! and lettin' hisself too low!
The clever he was, and the gentleman born—
It was a pity of him—and never car'n'
To take his place, and the quality
Thinkin' diamonds of him, and him on the spree
Weeks at a time, and clane forgettin'
Who was he and what was he, and lettin'
The people talk, but simple as ever,
And humble and proud; but aw, the clever!—
The clever!—the clever! and Tom and Dick
And all the lot, as thick as thick—
And likin' him much, but very quite,
And a kind of a feelin' it wasn' right.
But glasses round, and very nice talk,
And Callow's wife agate of the chalk,
And the Docthor in the big arm-cheer—
Aw, much respected—never fear!
And “Misthress Callow! draw your best!
And—listen! fill the Docthor's glass!”
No, I didn' like that—aw, 'deed! I didn'!
And they shouldn' have done it! no, they shouldn'.
But sippin' as nice as a 'potamus—
And never no pride with the like of us!
Not him, I tell ye! but quite contrary,
And callin' Misthriss Callow “Mary”—
And never talkin' much, but sittin'
And list'nin' to others, and smookin' and spittin',
And the chair a little back in the 'cess,
And takin' a terrible interes'.
That was the Docthor? yes, that was him
The very man! And, sink or swim—
Up or down, to laugh or to cry with,
That's the man I'd like to die with.
The Pazon? Yes! aw, yes! well, maybe—
Aw, innocent! innocent as a baby,
And good and true; but, for all, a man
Is a man, and I don't know will you understan',
But you know there's people's goin' that good
They haven't a smell for the steam of the blood
That's in a man; or, if they have,
They houlds their noses, and makes belave
They hav'n'. But the Pazon—no!
True and kind; and the ebb and the flow
Of all men's hearts went through and through him—
The sweet ould man, if you'd only knew him!
But the lek is in, and meant is meant—
But the Docthor! aw, the different!
And it wasn' men only, but 'arbs and that—
I tould ye before—aw, he had them pat,
And all sorts of bas'es and fowls of the air,
And fish of the sea, and everywhere
Where God put life it would give him a start,
And he'd take and catch it with his heart,
Trimblin' mostly, and wonderin',
But bound to find out all that was in,
And never satisfied till he had it—
Isn' that the way with God that made it?
Only at ither ends, you know,
Him above and us below—
Like men in a mine, that's got to be workin'
Two levels in one, and stoppin', and herkin',
And the compass at them, and keepin' nix,
And list'nin' for each other's picks.
And when they're together middlin' cluss,
They're workin' like blazes who'll be fuss,
And slishin', slashin', rock and spar
Till the hole is broke; and there they are!
“But it isn' that way with God at all,”
The Docthor would say, “for the thinner the wall
Between you and Him the slacker He is,
And not mindin' lek; and if you persiss,”
Them was the Docthor's words, “He'll either
Go back, or go by; and it's foolish rather,”
He'd say, “you'll be lookin'! And see a flower,”
He'd say, “partickler after a shower—
Wouldn' you think now (a rose or a lily)
He was goin' to talk to you with it? But will He?
Not Him, bless ye! But back and back,
And in and in, and laves no track—
Red and yaller! aye, just so!
And the more you know, the less you know!”
Funny talk! but lovin', for all—
Everythin' that was beautiful!
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,”
He was sayin'. And the tender! aw, you never!
The tender he'd handle the like, and strookin'
Their little leaves, and lookin', and lookin'.
Beetles, too, and butterflies—
Aw, they'd bring a light to the ould man's eyes
That was good to look at; and then he'd 'splain
How they were livin'. And after rain
It's out to the garden he'd be like a shot,
And down on the grubs uncommon hot;
And a lump of a case at him where he kep' 'em,
And pinched the worm or the louse that could 'skep him.
But tangles! that was his delight!
Dredgin', I tell ye, from mornin' till night!
And he'd have me out with him—just a little chap
That could work the paddles, and a sort of a trap
He'd rigged a-purpose—a scraper you'd call it,
To scrape the bottom, and heavy to haul it;
But keen! aw, keen! and a nettin' to 't
Rove with rings that would open and shut
Like a purse. And “Aisy! aisy!” he'd say.
And I'd be stoppin', and him haulin' away,
And sweatin' bad, and up he'd have it,
And over the side as right as a travit,
And then the joy! the abslit wild,
And shoutin' just like a little child!
And “Look here! look here! look! look! little lad!”
Aw, you'd swore the man was going mad!
“Here they are!” and sortin' them out
On the taff, and twistin' and turnin' about
That I'd be takin' notice, and puttin'
The terrible names on them, and cuttin'
The stones and the muck out of them, and squeezin'
The little threads; and coaxin' and teazin'
The fringes, and spreadin' them out on his sleeve,
But the delicate! you wouldn' believe;
And the soft and lovin', and a sort of a cooin'
Goin' at him all he was doin'.
And prayin', you'd think, and passin' the stringers
Of the long sea grass betwix' his fingers,
As if it wasn' wrack he had there,
But the holy bread, or a baby's hair.
And sometimes I'd be freckened lek,
Or sittin' wond'rin' on the beck,
And the oars dropped from me, and my mouth as open—
A little chap! or may be hopin'
There'd be oysters in, and sometimes laughin'
The way he was actin', but not very often,
For he'd turn and he'd say—“That's very bad!
Don't laugh! don't laugh now! little lad!”
And you're laughin' too? And it's long ago—
Laugh! laugh! But I liked the Doctor though!
Now, you'll be axin' how could a man
Like him be losin' himself that plan—
Sittin' there in a public-house,
And drinkin', and callin' that dirty trouss
By her name, and let his glass be fillin'
At the lek of yandher, and him quite willin'
For them to pay? “Aw, dear!” says you?
“Aw, dear!” indeed, and very true!
“Aw, dear!” you says? “Aw, dear!” says I—
“The shame!” says you, to which I rerply—
“The shame!” And “drinkin”' was it, you said?
Aye, and took home, and put to bed
At “the lek of yandher!” or maybe alone
Tryin', and trippin' over a stone
On the shore, and lyin' takin' his doze,
Till the tide come floppin' under his nose,
And the sniff of the water'd waken him up.
Bless me! hadn' the man a sup
One night in Douglas, and a book as big
As a Bible at him, and a thingummy-gig
Of a sort of a trough! And how did they act,
But took and tied them on to his back,
And on to the horse? and whatever it was
Whether the water or whether the grass,
Or used of a mill that was up that way,
The horse took straight for the inner bay,
And him that stupid he didn' obsarv' her,
And over her head and into the harver.
And “Murder!” and flounderin' about,
And the sentry hearin', and the guard turned out,
And fishin' him up. And “He'll take his death
Of cowld,” they says. And in spite of his teeth
Off with his clothes, and rigs him straight
In a little red jacket, and houldin' a light.
And the fun them divils of souldiers had!
And—“Serjeant! give him the shillin'!” they said.
And the Docthor quite content for all.
And standin', smilin', against the wall,
And his poor ould face all drabbled in tears,
And—“My noble British Grenadiers!”
He says; says the Serjeant—“A strappin' recruit!
And by jabers we'll give him a royal salute!”
And out with the fife and out with the drum,
And—“Steady! my lads! we'll see him home,”
And caught the mare, and “'Scuse me, your honour!
You're a tidy weight”; and heaves him upon her;
And rub-a-dub! rub-a-dub! never say die!
And the Docthor quite happy, and nice and dry!
And over the bridge, and away they go,
With a fol-di-rol-lol-di-rol-idy-o!
And away to the Lhen, and up to the door,
And a tantaran that was fit, for sure,
To waken the dead; and the Misthress comin'
With a light, and the Serjeant stoppin' the drummin',
And—“We've brought you your husband, Missis Bell!
And only her shift; and—“Very well!”
Says she as aisy as aisy, and out
With the candle straight, and used, no doubt!
And—“I'll remember you in my prayers,”
Says the Docthor, sthrugglin' upon the stairs,
And as dark as the divil; and leavin' the man,
Or lettin' him off, you'll understand.
Aisy! aye, aisy! and used, you know,
But a doeless sort of a woman though.
What for wouldn' she kick up a fuss,
The way that other women does,
Bein' anyways respectable—
What for wouldn' she give him his fill,
Ladlin' it hot? And very right!
Comin' home that way of a night!
But bless ye! No! Just “Very well!”
That's all you'd get from Misthress Bell!
No spirit! Chut! Not a bit! Nor standin'
On her right, and givin' it them from the landin'.
Why, there's many a woman would have up with the sash,
And soused the lot!—a set of trash
Like them to be gettin' it in the papers,
And freck'nin' people with their capers!
No sailor wouldn' have done the lek—
Bless your soul! too much respec'!
And more till one can play at that game,
And very apt to be took the same.
But still you'll be axin' how could it be?
And a man like that? Well, look here! d'ye see,
I'll tell ye now, but wait a minute!
Fist us that bottle! Is there anything in it?
All right! The cow must have her grass.
Now, listen!—this is the way it was.
The Docthor wasn' Manx at all,
But an Englishman; and what ye may call
'Printiced, you know, to a docthor in London,
A dandy docthor, the way there abundin'
In a place like that. Aw, terrible grand,
Buckin' up to the first of the land,
Drivin' about in a carriage and pair—
You know the lek is at them there.
And a footman, bless ye! And off he leps,
And touches his hat, and rattles the steps,
And out comes the Docthor as nate as a pin,
And the cheerful—it's astonishin'!
And the coat that's at him, shinin', by jing,
Like a pazon, or a raven's wing?
And how is Masther, and how is Miss?
And slaps a guinea into his fiss,
Or maybe two, I wouldn' wonder,
But one at least; aw, divil the under!
And aisy earned; and out like a shot,
And on to the rest—a humbuggin' lot!
But of coorse, the quality has their way,
And must have it, and let them pay.
And them big lazy lubbers with breeches
And stockin's at them! Well, riches is riches!
And where the carcase is, it's sayin', thither
Shall the eagles be gathered together.
Aye, that's it! well—troubles and troubles!
That's where the Docthor got in hobbles.
For there was a man they were callin' “Sir John”
The Dandy Docthor was docthor upon.
Aw, that was the man with the money—aye!
And a house at him, maybe ten stories high—
And nothin' but gool. Chut! Nothin' but gool,
Every chair and every stool!
And the cups and saucers—high uncommon!
High, aw, high! And never no woman
For cook in the kitchen at them there,
But a sort of a divil they called mounseer—
French, it's lek, and cockin' his chin,
And jabberin', and jabberin'.
Aw, gool wasn' nothin' yandharwheres—
Hadn't they bank-notes in the chairs
For stuffin'? And lookin'-glasses'd show
Every bit from top to toe,
And beds that was workin' on a swivel!
And pianoes! aye, scores! And as proud as the divil!
Now, the Dandy Docthor, you see, for all,
Sometimes couldn' get round on the call
That was after him reggilar; and so,
Of coorse, the young Docthor had to go.
And just as good, and very much lekked,
Special at what they're callin' the “sec”—
Manin' the ladies!—and a handsome man,
And no mistake. And six foot one,
If he was an inch, and handsome still
When he was an ould man; for there's some o' them will—
Aye, wore, of coorse, but you'll notice the signs,
And a ship may be wrecked, but showin' her lines—
And a light in his eye, like a sweet strong juice
Of fire comin' tricklin' from a sluice
In his head, or his heart, or somewhere or another,
Strained, like enough, from the milk of his mother,
And kindly mixed: and very nice
To look upon, and the same in his vice—
And playin' the flute most beautiful,
In the pocket at him down at the Bull,
Three pieces lek, and screwed with a jint,
And puttin' his ould lips to a pint,
And tootlin' away, and heisin' the lift
Of his eyes. And mayve the best of a shift
Of miners sittin' and list'nin' there,
And fit to cry, the sweet to hear
It was. And rough enough divils them,
But never rough, I tell ye, to him.
Aw, if the miners was there, by gough!
You dar'n' spit, and you dar'n' cough,
Nor breathin' mostly, or you'd have a fist
Down your throat middlin' slippy—and “hush!” and “whist!”
And—“aisy there!” and “silence!” and “shoo!”
You might ha' heard a pin—aw, it's true, it's true!
And him an ould man, and maybe half drunk,
And the head that shaky, and the cheek that sunk!
What'd he be like, then, when he was young—
With his hair all curled, and his vice like the bung
Of a barrel, and lookin' every man
Straight in the face? Aye! what would he be then?
Aw, there's no mistake! you may put it down!
The puttiest man in London town!
What did ye say? He couldn' have been!
In London, too, where the King and the Queen
Is livin', and all the quality!
And the finest men would be sure to be—
Knights, and Lords, and Ladies high,
Colonels and Dukes. To which I rerply—
Who says they didn'? Of coorse they do!
But wasn' Docthor Bell livin' there, too?
Wasn' he? wasn' he? Answer me that!
Aye, you're lookin' as cross as a cat,
Are you? Well, you're ugly enough
Already! My goodness! he's takin' the huff!
What is he sayin'? Who will he lather!
He wouldn' stand it from his father!
Well, I wouldn' hev a temper like yandhar fool.
Bless my heart then, let him cool!
'Deed on Bobby! don't look towards him!
Huffed, is he, eh? And who regards him!
Now, listen to me! I'll bet you a crown
He was the puttiest man in London town!
Now, I'll stand to that, now! What's your talk?
How am I sure? Well, there's chaps that'll balk
The divil himself! Now, just look here!
It's aisy howin'! Aw, dear! aw, dear!
How am I sure? To which I rerply—
I happen to know it! And “Who am I?”
Says you. To which——But, of coorse! of coorse!
A chap may be shoutin' till he's hoorse,
And nothin' but contradictin' still;
And it's very disagreeable!
Very—all along of that cur—
Now, I happen to know partikkiler!
Partikkiler! do you understand?
Partikkiler! the puttiest man
In London. I happen—never mind the how!
Partikkiler—aye! where are you now?
But avast this talk!
Now, you must know
There was no house the Docthor was useder to go
Till to this Sir John's. And, bless me! the diamonds
They were thinkin' of him! and he “shutes my requi'man's
To a T,” says Sir John; and “Come, man! come!
Dear me! make yourself at home!”
Ailin' often, or thinkin' he was;
And maybe a little too fond of a glass.
So there the Docthor'd be makin' his call,
And liked uncommon at them all!
Aw, the Docthor was this; and the Docthor was that
And the very dog and the very cat
Was takin' joy of him; and a bird
They had would sing the minute he heard
His foot. He had a way, I expec',
To hould communion with the lek.
And the sarvints! bless ye! The man was free;
And the plannin' and the schamin' there'd be
To get him down in the kitchen, though;
And kind to the high, and kind to the low;
And allis one of them bound to be poorly,
And “Would he see her?” and “Surely! surely!”
And any excuse just to get a look
At his handsome face. And even the cook
Would allow he was a good-lookin' falla,
“Though not in my style!” he'd say, and as yalla
As the yoke of an egg, and as ugly as sin,
And a bit of hair on the tip of his chin;
And he'd have a talk with the Docthor too,
And jabber away with his parley-voo—
And the Docthor givin' him back as good
As he gave. Aw, that's the man that could,
French or Hebrew, Greek or Latin,
All sorts of lingo, chittin' and chattin'
As quick, I tell ye, and wee-wee-wee!
And Mossher Bell! And fiddle-de-dee!
And the sarvints delighted, but wonderin' still,
And sayin'—“Isn' he terrible?”
But as for Sir John, from mornin' to night
He'd never have had him out of his sight;
For the Docthor was that handy about him
The ould chap couldn' do without him.
Aw, the Docthor knew the very fit
Of all his notions. And there he'd sit
And tell him all the talk o' the town,
And who was up and who was down,
And the in and the out, till at last he wrote
To the dandy Docthor, and bound him to't
That he'd allis be sending Dr. Bell,
For there was nobody suitin' him as well;
And sacked the dandy. You see, at least
He was only gettin' the name of the place—
Head Docthor to Sir John, you know,
And the money of coorse, but never to go!
And Dr. Bell, he didn' objeck,
And paid the same, but special lek
Betwix' him and Sir John. Now, Sir John, it appears,
Was a widda man in the teens of years,
And only one child, and his heart much set
Upon her, by the name of Harriet—
The only child that was at Sir John,
And just about goin' on twenty-one.
Aw, that's the gel that was the pretty!
The handsomest in London city!
Aw, you'll take that, will ye? Well! well! no matter!
But you'd batthar —eh! it's like you'd batthar!
Aye—and it's middlin' funny though,
If a man's goin' a callin' handsome, it's no!
And him! and ger out! But if contrary
It's a woman, aw, then you're agreeable, very!
And pricks up your ears; and dear! thinks you,
There's a gel in the case! and handsome too!
Aw, bless me! and perfectly willin' of it,
Well natur' is natur'. But drov it! drov it!
Now, this young gel was clever though,
As well as handsome, and lettin' them know,
And a bit of a scutcher, and orderin',
And every place as nate as a pin,
And couldn' stand no huggermugger
About, and sarvin' the tea and the sugar;
And weighin' the mutton, and weighin' the beef,
And wouldn' have no dirty ould thief
Of a housekeeper—or whatever they call them—
Betwix' her and the sarvints, but would overhaul them
Herself like the mischief; and a book, and settin'
What was she givin' and what was she gettin';
Aw, strict, I tell ye, but terrible good
And righteous lek. Aw, the grand ould blood
That was in her, makin' every limb
So sweet and so true that she looked to swim
In a light of glory and loveliness,
All about her, and fillin' the place
With the right sort of spirit wherever she'd be—
And a sweet-smellin' savour of honesty!
And for all the strict, they were lovin' her
You wouldn' believe! aw, 'deed they were.
Happy and holy and undefiled,
And twenty-one! aw, bless the child!
And terrible dutiful to the father,
But quite; and freckened of him rather.
And him as proud as proud could be
Of her; but a rough ould chap, ye see,
And of coorse he'd seen a deal of life
And wickedness, and lost the wife,
A middle-aged man, and took his fill
O' the lek, and chewin' the cud of it still,
And swearin' for he couldn' do more
Till chewin' the cud. Aw, hard at the core,
And full of the world and the things of the world;
And nothin' in him for the child to curl
Her soul around. Aw, a divil! it's true:
And rather a dirty ould divil too.
And not much truck between the pair,
But dutiful, dutiful, reggilar.
It was the Docthor that he was takin' to,
For of coorse the Docthor was bound to know
About all the divilment that was in,
And this and that, and a heap of sin,
And all the rigs, and the crops, and the weather,
And who and who was goin' together,
And all the bag o' lies ould Nick
Shakes out every mornin' for his childher to pick.
But I tell ye the Docthor shouldn' ha' done it,
And hard to stop the once he begun it—
Aw, very wrong and foolish it was,
And comin' home to him at las'.
But the Docthor! the Docthor! the Docthor still
At Sir John. And the 'tention and the skill,
A miracle! a miracle!
He was swearin'—the way he'd fixed his gout—
And “Chut!” he'd say; “what are you talkin' about?”
He says, “I've took him by the hand,”
He says, “and by gough I'll make him a man.”
“Yes,” he says, “he's safe,” he says,
“He's all right, I tell ye; the very first place
In this counthry,” he says, “is the place for him,”
And no mistake but he'd have that same!
And where he'd spake for him, and what would he do—
And the cusses flying like Waterloo—
And “a divilish willin' chap; and a wag,”
And “game,” he'd say. Aw, the terrible brag
He was takin' out of the Docthor! “By gorrum!”
He says, “the King'll be sendin' for him.”
And “the useful! the useful! you couldn' tell!”
And nobody like Docthor Bell.
And that was true! It's useful he was,
For whether a dog, or whether a hoss,
Or a man, or a maid, or an ox, or an ass,
Or everythin' that is his—mind you!
The Docthor could tell the very screw;
Aw, fix it to a dot—he could—
To a dot, I tell ye; and understood
All about lawin' and every spree,
And leasin' lek, and proppity.
Aw, useful! bless ye! there's no know'n'!
And handy uncommon, whatever was goin'—
Big parties and that; and tasty show
With the flowers, and decoratin' you know—
And managin', and who to ax,
And a hammer at him, and a paper of tacks,
And fixin'. And all the servants delighted
And runnin'. And pounds of candles lighted—
Bless ye! all the house in a blaze,
And the Docthor knowin' all the ways;
And how should it be, and when to begin,
And mind, now! mind! and orderin',
And well acquent with all the stars,
Sthroullers lek, musicianers—
Punch and Judy divils—chaps
That's glad to come for the bits and the scraps!
And dangerous to get drunk though, very,
Gin or brandy, port or sherry—
All as one; and hardly seein'
The book afore them, and tweedledeein'
Like mad, tell they cannot tweedle no more,
And goin' a puttin' to the door,
And collared at the police, never fear!
Aw, dozens of fiddles! aye, dozens there!
Goin' like the deuce, and rub-a-dub-dub—
Tramhurns and things. Aw, just like a club!
Jinglin'-janglin' enough to have stunned ye,
Just like a club o' Easter Monday;
And the Pazon goin' in the front, and struts out
Like a cock, and the band a blowin' their guts out.
Now, Sir John was ould, but he was fond
Of company was ould Sir John—
Aye—and glad if a body would take
The trouble of shuperintendin' the lek—
And nothin' to do but to look as big
And as grand as he could; and a beautiful wig
Made fast that never no body could pint
Azackly the place he had the jint.
And a noddin' here, and a gruntin' there,
And backin' and gettin' into a chair,
A purpose for him. And cards, and a set
Of ould chaps like hisself; and they'd dale and they'd bet,
And they'd cuss—very comfibil—and keep
At the cards till the lot o' them went to sleep!
And Docthor Bell of coorse head man.
And so you'll aisy understan'
How it happened betwix' them two—
The young missis, I mane, and the way they grew
Very thick, and much together.
And that's the way, you see, you'll sleddher
Unknownced, and slip and slip again,
Till over you go, and it's love that's in!
Head over ears—the way they're sayin',
But gradjal! gradjal! for love will be playin'
A terrible long game sometimes—
Aw, 'deed he will! and the divil climbs
Inch by inch, but he climbs, for all;
And let your main royal be ever so tall,
It's him that'll stand upon the truck.
And—down with your colours! By gough! you're took!
Down with your colours! down! I say—
Aw, you're a fair prize, anyway!
The little monkey with his bow and arris,
Lek he'd be afthar shootin' sparris—
You've seen in the valentines, small but spunky!
Aw, the little monkey! the little monkey!
He'll do it, he will; aw, there's not much doubt
He'll do your bizness. Chut! get out!
Bless ye! how could they manage it
That it wouldn' be, and her to sit
At a little bit of a table there,
And him a standin' behind a chair,
And her to be calkerlatin' lek,
And him to prove it all correct!
And if she looked up now, what would she see
But a man that was made as a man should be?
And if he looked down, what was the sight?
A woman as beautiful as the light!
And her lookin' up, and him lookin' down,
Is the way it was mos'ly, I'll be bound!
Nor it isn' natheral, I'll assure ye,
To be allis lookin' straight before ye!
And aisy talkin'—but, listen to me!
How would it be now? how would it be?
The lovely scent comin' off her hair,
And the curly rings, and the neck all bare,
Excep' a little thread or so
Stragglin', lek not knowin' where to go!
And, aw, the beautiful divide
Tha'd be there—the white! and the purified!
And the tips of her ears. They're soft little things
Is them, like indiarubber springs—
Nice uncommon to feel. Hurroo!
I'm off my coorse! This'll never do!
You're laughin', Bobby? Aw, he has me!
The stuff I'm talkin' though, God bless me!
But still now mos'ly it's hard to tell—
But a boy is a boy and a gel is a gel;
And put together lek that way,
And their breaths goin' mixin' like the hay
Of a sultry everin', and near
Enough to one another to hear
The come and the go, and the click o' the heart;
And now and then a little start,
And a catch on the cogs, and houldin' in—
Aw, it'll cook your goose astonishin'!
And bad enough in the town, but wuss
When ould Sir John gave a rattlin' cuss,
And it's on to the country, at your sarvis!
The Docthor must come with him for harvis'!
Such times the shootin' would be goin',
And horses to ride, and boats either rowin'
Or sailin', and fishin'. Aw, ye never seen!
A mortal grand place it must have been.
Aw, that's what done it altogether
Betwix' them two. And no talk o' the father,
Nor the how, nor the when, but married they'd be
Some time or other—ma chree! ma chree!
Aye, that's the very way it is—
A kind of a sort of drunkenness.
I'm told she was proud, too, all the same;
And they're hard to fall in love is them,
But fell —chut! bless ye! there's nothin' lek them!
No! for you'll neither bend nor brek them!
For pride is hard and love is soff—
But the two together—that's the stuff!
Harder till hard! the way they're mixin'
Two metals in one for the hard, or fixin'
The die, very slow in the soak, mind you!
But takin' the colour through and through!
Takin'—aye! aw, long in the steepin'—
Takin'—aye! takin' and keepin'!
And didn' they ax the father? No!
Certainly not! A rum sort of go
To be axin' him! What for? My conscience!
What for? Now really! What sort o' nonsense
Is that to be axin'! Says you, What for?
Says I, because they didn' dar'!
Dar', says you. Yes! dar', says I!
They should, says you. To which I rerply—
Certainly not! Now, then, go on!
Certainly not! Aw, I see you're done!
Very well, then—done it is—
Interruptin'! Idikkiliss!
The reason they dar'n'? Well, wait a spell
And you'll hear the reason. Waitin's well.
Aye, indeed! Now, the counthry air
Is terrible for love, I'll swear—
Terrible to make it grow,
And take a root, and blossom and blow
Like the roses, and all the flowers. The lek
Isn' in towns, and you can't expeck.
For people is lovin' in towns of coorse,
But it isn' the deep, and it hav'n' the force,
Nor wholesome lek, and sweet, the way
It is in the counthry, with cows and hay,
And all to that; but a sort of a bother,
And a aggravatin' one another,
Or makin' believe; and a hum and a huff,
And none o' the juice o' the rael stuff—
Somethin' like the milk they've got,
Half of it water. And whether or not,
No light in the sky, no bird on the wing,
A sort of a dirty gasey thing!
Isn' the air all rotten? Yes!
And lovin' the same—that's the way it is.
That's the way in the towns, you see;
But the country—aw, dear o' me!
Well, back to the town, though; back to the town:
And it's lek enough it's there they foun'
The differ, but takin' it with them—eh?
Aw, come out o' that! What do you say?
Apt to be foolish? That's allowed!
But aisy! aisy! the both o' them proud,
Proud of each other, and very plaised
The love was at them; that's what aised
Their hearts uncommon, thinkin'—what?
Thinkin' they were chised, lek, from the lot—
Chised complete; and never no man
Nor woman, I tell ye, but the one—
Just the one; and then—— No matthar!
Give it up! the wuss, or the batthar—
Just the one! Aw, that's the style;
For love is straight like a little child:
You loves me, and I loves you;
So what are you wantin' us to do?
Spake to the father? Go to pot!
Certainly not! certainly not!
No, no! Bless your soul! fair play!
Time enough for that, thinks they;
Or never didn' think nothin' about it;
Never axed, and never doubtet—
Some way, some day. The world is wide,
And driftin', driftin' with the tide.
And driftin' is very pleasant, too,
When the sea is calm and the sky is blue,
And you've got the littlest taste of a breeze,
Just enough to make a baby sneeze;
And your head on your arms, and your feet on a taff,
And nothin' drawin', fore or aft—
Chut! as happy as Nicodemus,
And knowin' you're out of the track o' the staemers;
And maybe a bee comin' bummin' by,
As if he was in the notion to fly
Far, far away, where there's brighter flowers
And sweeter honey, he's thinkin', than ours—
Or a bit o' thistle-wool comin' skippin'
Head over heels; or oars a dippin'
Out on the Trunk, and all the nisin'
O' the land goin' into one, surprisin'—
Dogs and cows—lek a sort of confusick,
Makin' a wonderful mixthur o' musick;
And the very land itself'll go
Like an urgan playin', soft and low!
Bless me! where am I now? A calm!
And driftin'! 'Deed, I think I am.
But driftin', if it's driftin' you're for,
Two together—there you are—
That's the sort! No need to rest
Your head on your arms when a lovin' breast
Is ready to take it. Rest it there!
And driff—driff—driff, then, God knows where!
Aye, but that's it, for the man would be clever
That'd go on driftin' and driftin' for ever.
No! it must come to an end at last,
And it doesn' matter the slow or the fast,
Settin' in on a point, or takin' you aff,
Nor how's your sheets, or what's your draff —
It's up like a shot! and pull man, pull!
Backards is backards, says Bobby the Bull.
But it soon came out in London for all,
The very next winter—a terrible ball
They were hav'n', lek maybe thousands there,
And the jingin' and shovin', just like a fair.
And the Docthor not very careful though,
But took the fancy, and off he must go
Lonesome lek, whatever he had,
And lavin' the quality at it like mad,
And into the 'sarvatory, a place
Built on the the house, in a sort of a 'cess —
They're keepin' feerins there, and the lek of them.
And glass you know, and a sort of a frame—
Cucumbars? Well, you're makin' me laugh!
Cucumbars! What are you thinking of?
No! but a house as big as a shop,
And flowers goin' twistin' over the top
Inside and out; and no dung nor beddin',
The way with cucumbars; and spreddin'
Roundy lek, and glass, I stated,
And most magnificent titervated.
So that's the place where the Docthor came in,
Just souljerin' about, in saemin';
And rather dark in there, I'm tould,
And nice and fresh, and a sort of a bowl,
And a spoot goin' skutin' the water up,
Only just a little sup,
But givin' a very pleasant sound,
Skutin' and drippin' all around.
Aw, a fuss-rate place! But it's lek I needn'
Be tellin' you what was the Docthor heedin'—
Aye, aye! You're right. Of course she was—
And a lad is a lad, and a lass is a lass—
Swells? yes! yes! but the proud white neck
Stooped, and all of a trimble lek,
Stooped though, stooped! Aw, never fear!
Much the same, from what I hear—
And no mistake! the ould, ould story!
And “Honey-soap!” says Queen Victory.
Now, this dandy docthor I was talkin' about
Was jealous of Docthor Bell, no doubt—
Mortal! And no wondher, you'll say,
Bein' put out of the berth that way;
And watchin', watchin', like a cat,
And eyein' his chance—aw, mind you that!
And there that night, and took up a pogician,
As the bobby said, like a fellow fishin',
And calkerlatin', and dancin' the fly,
And fish about, but rather shy—
Just like I heard a preacher tell
The divil is fishin' in the dubs of hell—
Watchin'! the dirty thing! And took
The advantage of them two! Worse luck!
And crep', and crep', and saw them together,
And the kisses goin', and envyin' rather,
Aw, envyin', by gough! And away
To ould Sir John, which was hard at the play,
And somethin' partickler, and wasn' able
Just there, and got him from the table,
Swearin', though; and faith! he tould him.
Aw, then, the job was how to hould him!
And jumps like a lion shot at the hunter,
And “Who?” and “What!” and he'd go and affront her
Confront is it? All as one —
And “Make love to my daughter!” says Sir John,
“Make love to my daughter!” And like to bust,
And the mad he clane forgot to cuss.
And the people begun to stare. But the dandy
Took him away, though, very handy,
And into the 'sarvatory another road,
And coaxin' him, for the love of God,
To keep quite. And “Be carm, SirJonn, be carm!”
And scrunchin' the teeth, and just like barm—
Foamin'! And her, he was sayin', her!
And, then—“Look there, Sir John, look there!”
Look there, indeed! Aw, the close! the close!
And the four lips makin' the one red rose—
Somethin' worth lookin' at, I'll swear!
Aw, a beautiful pair! a beautiful pair!
“Rascal! scoundrel! villain! thief!”
Aw, the rose was broke—aw, every leaf!
“Come out of that!” he says, and the string
Of his tongue was unloosed, and then full swing
The cusses come rollin' fair and free.
And, “Is this your gratitude to me!
And you! Miss Madam! you! you! you!”
He was chokin' lek; but the poor girl flew
Like a freckened bird, and in on the door—
The little one, I tould you afore—
And the dandy he got behind it, the way
She wouldn' see him! Aw, as good as a play!
But she did, and she gave him a look for all
That was fit to pin him against the wall.
And he bowed very low, the sliddherin' snake—
A dirty divil, and no mistake!
And what did the Docthor do? What could he?
Answer him? Chut! It was well he kept studdy,
Aw, very studdy, and takin' his part,
But studdy, except he gave a start
At something that the ould man said
About the young lady. Aw, then the head
Went up, and the eye was brought to the level,
And bedad the ould man had to be civil
For a bit, and backed, you see—the freckened
He was—rather further till he reckoned—
And over a tub, and tripped, and comin'
Against a image of a woman
That was there, and shook, and threw on the ground,
And broke; and maybe a hundred pound!
And black in the face, and the cusses as hot
As brimstone boilin' out of the throat—
And the company comin' runnin' in,
And all the row and all the din—
And gettin' to know, and glasses cockin',
And “Oh!” says the ladies, “Oh! how shockin'!”
And drawin' a one side, as if they meant
The Docthor to go. So the Docthor went.
Then says an ould chap—and he gave a cuss—
“A strappin' young fellow! She might have done wuss!”
And what to do? Aw, bless your soul!
How would I know? Only I'm tould
The same man fought the battle well,
Aw, it's the rael stuff was Docthor Bell.
And up to the house the very next mornin',
And day after day, and the sarvints warnin',
If they'd spake to him, and he would see Sir John—
Yes! he would, and he should see Sir John!
And all very well if he could see Sir John!
But the most o' the ould sarvints was forced to go,
Takin' his part, o' coorse, you know.
'Deed I believe the lot o' them had
To leave, excep' Mounseer, and a lad
That was at them there they were callin' James—
You're wonderin' I remember the names?
Aye! lek enough! But James and me
Was well acquent. So let that be.
Day after day, day after day—
Aw, it was a pity of him, any way!
Pity enough! And never no chance
To get speech with Sir John—aw, divil the once!
And letters! letters! Lave him alone!
And her of coorse never gettin' none!
And tould at last at a big new flunkey
To cut his stick, and rizzed his monkey,
And ups with his fist and knocks him down,
And nabbed at the bobbies, and took and bound
To keep the peace, the way the law says—
And this and that—and five shillin' and cosses.
That's what they're callin' justice, by jing!
Justice' There isn' no such thing!
Not for the poor man! no there isn'!
Down with the dibs, or go to prison!
That's the justice! Aw, the beauties!
A executin' of their duties!
“Empty puss—nothin' does!
Full bags—nice nags—
Money is honey—my little sonny!
And a rich man's joke is allis funny!”
Eh? That's it—“I'm not able to pay't,”
Says you. “You scandalous runnagate!”
Says he; “you notorious vagabone!
You thief! aye, murderer! There's no knowin'!
You desperate ruffian,” he says, “how dare ye?
You're a case for pity—are ye?
Remove him, jailer!” he says, and screws
His mouth like a vice; but what's the use?
Jingle the shiners—“Stop! stop! stop!
Jailer! I think we may adop'
A differin' coorse. I think we can,
Jailer,” he says, “with this gentleman.”
Pay them! pay the very last fardin'!
And, “Raelly, sir!” and “I ask your pardon!”
Justice! Is it justice! Blow them!
Justice! Aw, by gough! I know them—
And should. Why, wasn' I took at them there
In Liverpool? And strapt on a bier,
And away at them. And all I done
Was kicked in a window, bein' full o' fun
And divilment, and noways drunk, d'ye see;
But just a sup. And fond of a spree
Them times—and strapped! (just a taste o'gin)
Like a dead man gain' a buryin'—
And in in the dark, and goin' a pitchin'
On the floor in a sort of divil's kitchen.
And the stink there was there! And the dirty lot—
And never a window, and as hot as hot!
Says I, “I'm respectable connecket.”
Says they, “You look uncommon lek it”;
And shuts the door, and turns the key—
And them dirty bruteses scratchin' away—
You'd think they were in a meadow mowin',
The reg'lar and complete they were goin'!
Well, I never thought much of Harry Cowle
Since that very day; and, upon my sowl,
A man should stick to a friend, he should—
But out of the way the fast he could,
Makin' tracks, like a haythen nigger—
The coward! And big! aye, couldn' be bigger!
And strong. And lavin' me alone
To tackle the lot! Aw, bone to bone
And flesh to flesh for ever, I say.
Stand by your mates! and fire away!
Why, bless your life! if yandher fool
Had ha' stood, it isn' in Liverpool
They'd ha' got the twenty men 'd ha' took us!
But never mind! that's the way the luck is.
And, by gough, it's a comfort all the same—
I made a picther o' two o' them—
And havin' no money, the case was clear—
Two months of coorse! Aw, never fear!
Chut! Where am I? Alow or alof?
This James, the lad I was tellin' you of—
Terrible fond o' the Docthor, you know,
Got out one day, I tell you though,
And bein' up to all sorts o' dodgin',
Come unknownced to the Docthor's lodgin',
And tould him Miss Harriet was sent
To a place they calls the “Continent.”
So what does the Docthor do but starts
The very nex' day for them foreign parts—
I don't know what country, but middlin' far—
About the places they've got the war,
I'm thinkin'. But of coorse he was much behind her,
And hadn' no track, and couldn' find her.
But wandered up and down the land,
Till the money was gone, you'll understand.
And gettin' very poor and shabby,
And atin' little, and as weak as a babby.
And home at last, and nearly dyin';
And James to see him, and bust a cryin'—
Aw, bad. And one of these docthor chaps
That'd nuss a elephant on their laps,
If he was sick, a reg'lar limb,
You know, but kind and fond of him—
Well, this young divil took him in hand,
And stuck to him though, and nussed him grand,
Till at last the Docthor was fit for the road.
And that's the time he came to Bigode.
It's a farm that's pretty well up on the mountain;
And lonely! Aw, there's no accountin';
But sick, it's lek, at the heart, and needin'
A dale o' peace, like a sort o' feedin',
You know; and glad to be out of Anglan',
For what is there there but wranglin' and janglin',
And hurry and scurry, and never allowed
To take your time. And all the crowd,
And—go it, cripples!—and the people hard,
And—out of my road! and doesn' regard
If you're limpin' or laughin'! Aw, very rough,
And savage though; aye, savage enough—
And uplifted suandalous, and settin' their face
Like a flint. Aw, bless ye! it isn' a place
At all! I wouldn' give it the name
Of a Christian country. Well, he came
To the Bigode for all, and Bigode is near
Nor'-east from the Lhen, and a step to be there—
About a two mile at any rate—
A little house, but rather nate,
And a terrible prospect of the say,
And mountains stretchin', right away
East and west, and a gill goin' slantin'
In front, and a little bit of a plantin';
And situated very purty —
About twenty acre, or from that to thirty;
Middlin' land, and a river for sure,
Very nice, and trouts thallure.
Well, it's there the Doctor come to stay,
And nobody knowin', I've heard them say,
Who was he, or what? Just a gentleman
In hiddlins lek—the way they ran
Common enough them times over there,
And mostly heavy on the beer.
The Bigode's ones was very fond of such—
It's lek—not givin' trouble much—
Aw, 'deed, the mistress would ax like a shot
Were they drinkin', or were they not?
And if so be they wasn' drinkin',
“You'll 'scuse me, sir,” she'd say, “I'm thinkin'
We'll hardly shuit,” she says, says she,
“We'll hardly shuit.” Aw, fond of a spree
Was the thing for her; but a dacent woman,
Mind you, and stuck to the house uncommon.
But never axed the Docthor still,
Lookin' that down and miser'ble,
And broke to pieces, lek it would be
A fine man fell in ruins, you see—
The way they are. And of coorse all right,
Thinks the woman; and no appetite
To spake of. What? aw, right enough!
But wondhrin' where he had the stuff,
And whenever in the world was he goin' to begin—
Wondherin', and wondherin'!
And sometimes she'd think he had a way
Of a little stagger at him—eh?
Or a look of the eye, resemblin' drink,
And very promisin', she'd think—
And she'd smile very nice, and pretend to smell it—
Aw, bless ye! I've heard my father tell it
(The ould man would laugh!), and sniffin' and snuffin'
As if she felt it reg'lar puffin'
In her face. And “Aw, Misther Bell! aw, 'deed!
It's the throuble,” she'd say, “And no doubt you've need
Of a little comfort! Yes—yes—yes!
A little comfort, and a comfort it is—
Aw, general allowed! Aw, well!
Don't regard for me, Misther Bell!
It's only too glad I am see—
And”—a fiddle-de-diddle-de-diddle-de-dee!
And the Docthor, havin' a little chaff —
And searched the bed, and searched the laff
To see where was the bottle arrim,
Aye, and every place on the farm,
And the haggart, and pokin' every stack,
Fancyin' she was seein' somethin' black;
And that curious lek she couldn' helf,
Lek playin' But-thorrin with herself.
But no signs of drinkin', bless ye! none—
Just wantin' to be left alone!
Not but what he was kind, I believe,
Though of coorse he hadn' much to give;
But gave it hearty. Aw, very nice,
And allis had a beautiful vice—
And the flutin', you know; and 'd sit at the door,
And play till you'd hear him at the shore,
Or out on the mountain, he didn' care,
On a big gray stone that was used to be there,
And the very sheep lookin' up at him though,
He was blawin' through it that strong, you know,
But the pigs, o' coorse, 'd go on with their rootin'!
Aw, flootin' terrible, terrible flootin'!
And all the ould tunes he had them as plain—
“Kirree fosh niaghty,” and “Molly Charane,”
And “Hop-tchu-naa,” and “Bonny Dhoon”—
Chut! every tune, every tune!
And that aisy plaised that Misthress Kelly
Was used to say the man was raelly
As good as if he was drinkin' hard,
And terrible useful in the yard,
Puttin' out dung, you know, and that,
And “no more trouble till an ould Tom Cat,”
She said, “and not noticed in the house;
And mind the childher, or herd the cows,
Or anythin'.” And never knowin'
He was one of the cleverest doctors goin'—
Nor nothin' about him—better nor wuss—
In hiddlins, you know, in hiddlins jus'.
Aye! and made some fishin' gear,
And agate of the troutses, never fear!
And dozens. And had them for his tay!
And dirty little things any way!
I never could understand the raison
The quality likes them. It's amazin'!
But o' coorse! o' coorse! And catchin' them
Theirselves, you know, and just the same,
But theirselves, and a sort of a newance, you see.
But they're very strange is the quality.
And never much upon the shore
Them times at all, and very wore
And treigh, they were sayin', and fonder of roddin'
Till lines, but smilin' lek, and noddin',
Whenever he was meetin' the men
Gettin' water, you know, at the mouth of the glen—
Beautiful water it was—and passin'
The time o' day, and maybe as'in'
About the boats; and givin' a tune
With the flute; but goin' very soon;
And the fishermen standin' and waitin' still,
And wantin' to know him terrible!
Aw, the casks would be wonderful long a fillin',
And nudgin' each other to ax was he willin'
To try a cruise; but they didn' dare—
Shy lek—that's the way they are
With strangers, you know; but hopin' for all
The man 'd come to, and the slow they'd haul
The painter aboard, and shovin' off,
And showin' how they could handle their craft—
And terrible curious to know
Was he lookin', and turnin', and keekin', though,
Now and then, and longin'—aye!
But not pretendin'. Aw, very shy!
For that's the way the fishermen's allis—
Uncommon fond of strangers, and jallis
Of one another, and never the fuss
To make friends afore they'd make friends with us—
And likin' a man that's big and tall,
And one that's handsome and sorrowful—
And knowin' directly like a shot,
Is he a gentleman or not.
Hiddlins! Aye! but aisy to know them,
And likin' such, and stickin' to them.
But the Docthor wouldn' often stay
To look, but up with the rod and away,
And in on the bushes, and takin' the road
Past the Brew, and up to Bigode—
And disappointed, and out to the Head
To see could they get the Pazon instead.
That was the way, I've heard them tell;
But at last they got to know him well—
Aw, well! for behould ye! the cholera came
To the shore, and then it was just the same
Lek it's in the Bible when the Prophet was tould
That time at the Lord to be very bould,
And not to be hidin' in yandher place
And booin', like a sort o' disgrace
To a prophet, you know, the lek would be—
But, “Go down and spake to them!” says He—
“Go down and spake to them, you bough!”
And that's the thing he done, by gough!
Aw, 'deed he did—and that's the word
That come to the Doctor. Yes! the Lord—
I do believe it was Him that spoke
That very word, and took and shook
The man in his soul the way he'd say—
“Go down and spake to this cholera!”
And he spoke to it, he did. Aw, the man
Was bould and brave, and he spoke to it grand—
Never was such a Docthor seen!
Never! no never! and couldn' have been.
But the sickness was bad, I've heard them sayin'
And people goin' out to the rocks and prayin',
Kneelin'in lochans, or anywhere.
And all the good sucked out of the air.
Aw, bad! very bad! uncommon though—
Black and stinkin'!—that's the go—
In an hour, or maybe only a hafe,
And coffined, and tuk and put in your grave
That very night; and turches blazin'
Like the luggers shows in the herrin' saison—
Only of coorse made slow to burn—
And everybody waitin' their turn
Who'd be next. And a man 'd come in
From the grounds very slack, and droppin' the chin;
And the foot would be heavy arrim lek,
Gettin' out o' the boat—and what to expec'!
And he'd sit a bit on the gunwhale, you know,
And then he'd swallow the heart, and go,
And up to the door, and puttin' in his head,
And, well? And maybe two of them dead!
And then the cry he'd put out of him!
And prayin' and cussin', and shoutin' their name!
Yes! Or never no words at all,
But the dry eye starin' against the wall.
And there's some o' them stood out to sea on a tack,
And never no thought at them to turn back,
Nor no heart; but stupid like in the boat;
And the tiller with only their oxther to 't,
And the head on the hand—and sailin', sailin',
Reggilar, and goin' a hailin'
At some of these brigs, and hardly the sense
To know, and wakin' like out of a trance,
And their eyes all glazed, and, “Look out! look out!”
And never a word but heavin' about,
And in. And “Is that a way to steer?”
Says the Whitehaven chaps; and cussin' them there.
And some was givin' up everythin',
And away to the mountains and wanderin',
And lavin' the wife and the childher to die;
And the Pazon after them to try
Could he coax them or shame them; and them givin' sheet
Like the mischief—and the Pazon, middlin' fleet,
And knowin' the country well, and 'd nab them
Aisy among the ling, and grab them
By the scruff, and ax them were they men?
And cryin' though from glen to glen—
“Come home! come home!” And, bless ye! some
Would swear most fearful, and wouldn' come—
No they wouldn'! but 'd get on a rock
High up above him, and shout and mock,
Blasphemin' pitiful. Aw, mad!
Poor things. But others not so bad,
And 'd listen to the Pazon, for all,
And come whenever they heard him call—
Aye! and 'd put their hand in his
Like little childher. Aw, true it is!
And he'd take and lead them very nice
And gentle lek, and the lovin' vice,
And the lovin' ways that was arrim —you see—
And, “Come, then! come, then! come with me!”
So the men would come, but very wake,
And a kind of silly, the way it'll make
The strongest. Aye! aw, it might have been
Jesus Himself the poor chaps seen,
And follerin'—the way it says
In the Bible. How is this the vess
Is goin'?—I'm not much of a scholar—
Foller, it's sayin', aye! they'll foller
The shepherd, it's sayin', the shepherd, though;
But a stranger they will not follow—no!
For his voice is strange. So that's the raison—
Aw, the Pazon's vice was sweet amazin',
And he'd have them home; aw, never fail!
And better and happier a dale.
And some was lookin' for 'arbs, and chewin them,
And atin' roots, and not rightly knowin' them,
And pizenin' theirselves. And the ould women that was doin'
Charms and the lek was prayin' and booin',
And hadn' no charms, and wouldn' let on
They ever had, or the power was gone.
And Christ to save them! save them! save them!
And Go! But the people wouldn' belave them.
And axin' for charms, and some o' them took
An ould wutch, and tore her, and ragged her, and shook
The very life nearly out of her!
And the women the worst. And the for! the for
She wouldn'? And screamin' bad, I'm tould;
And prayin' the Lord to save her soul.
And the Pazon come, and “Lave her alone!”
He says, and—Were their hearts of stone?
He says, and druv them back. And crawlin'
And slobberin' at his feet, and callin'
For to save her, and grippin' his legs like crazy.
And the Pazon terrible onaisy.
And then the lot of them cried out
With a bitther cry, and sent the shout
Right up to heaven, and all the Lhen,
And all the shore, and all the glen
Was just one cry—“Oh, save us, Lord!
Save us according to Thy word!
Save us, oh God of Israel!”
And when the Pazon heard it he fell
On his knees, and he took a shockin' prayer—
I've heard plenty tellin' that was there—
Took a prayer, I tell ye, for all —
Took a prayer, though, to the full—
A splendid prayer, and all of them aised
Much in their minds, and mortal plaised
With the Pazon, and the wutch got over her fright—
But died, poor thing! I'm tould, that night!
Now, the Docthor heard that cry up there
At Bigode—he did though, and bound to hear,
The sun just settin' and him alone
Sittin' on the ould gray stone
I tould ye. And the everin' very still.
Then the cry come up the hill—
And the other cry was in his heart—
Torectly; and it was—“Start, man! start!”
Aw, he started! he did, for sure—
Aye, that minute! aw, traa thallure.
Wasn' no word for him—no! no!
Bless ye! didn' the vice say Go?
Aw, I've heard him tellin'. And he said he ran
The hardest he could, and took and began
At the very first house, and sent a chap
To Douglas with a horse and trap
For physic and things, and then he stuck to,
And had it out with this cholera though—
Aw, just like David the time he come
And left the sheep with the lad at home,
And a passil o' little cheeses strappin'
On his back for a present to the cap'n;
And then—for all the father tould him—
Yandher brothers must go and scould him.
But it's him that larned them how to fight,
And ups to the giant, and says he, “All right
Here's at ye!” he says, “you vagabone!”
And polished him off with a sling and a stone.
With a sling and a stone—What's that you're sayin'?
I'll trouble ye be so kind as 'splain.
Laughin', too! What else? what else?
The stones the Docthor had would be pills!
Aye, man, aye? That's very witty—
Very! Raely it's a pity
You're not in the circus, Bobby, too.
They're wantin' fools—I dessay you'd do!
Pills!—but come! no more of this—
It's very improper—that's what it is—
And Scripther, too. Aw, drop it now!
Listen to me, and I'll tell you the how!
See! here's the Docthor, and here is David;
And if you don't understand it, lave it—
The Docthor and David—that's a pair
All as one: now, then, look here—
The Docthor and David—didn' I say?—
Well, then, here's the cholera
And David—no, that's not it either—
But anyway, two and two together.
David! David! Let me see!
How would it be, now! how would it be?
The giant—aw, it's aisy to mock—
Swellin' out like a turkey-cock,
And gobblin' there most terrible;
And David, with the eye upon him still—
Two and two—and aback of the shield—
And—I'll give your flesh to the beast of the field—
Two of a side—I'll have it directly—
The cholera and the giant—azackly!
The cholera—that's ould Goliath;
I got it now—and it's sayin' “he defieth
The armies of the livin' God”—
The rascal! And tellin' how he was shod,
And the coat and the spear like a weaver's beam—
That's the cholera, just the same—
Aw, I thought I hed it somewhere about;
But, by gough, it was hard to get it out.
Botherin' me, a sling and a stone!
And pills! I wish you'd lave me alone.
There was another docthor, too, they were havin'
Before, that didn' know what he was givin',
Nor why was he givin' it—a foolish
Sort of a chap that was comin' from Dhoolish,
And couldn' do nothin' but sit by the bed—
And tap the cane, and shake the head,
And feel the wrist, and count the watch—
An ould man! Chut! he wasn' a match
For Bell at all; for Bell was quick
And supple uncommon, and hearty lek,
And that cheerful that whenever he was by
You couldn' think a man would die—
And that full of life, like makin' it go
Into others out of himself, you know,
And just like drivin' death afore him—
That's the way. So this ould cockalorum
Saw he wasn' no use at the Lhen,
And cut, and never come back again.
And when the Dhoolish fellow was slantin'
That's the very thing the Docthor was wantin',
And had a meetin' up at the school,
And the Pazon there; and Master Coole
That was Captain of the Parish was there;
And of coorse the captain would be in the chair,
But couldn' put out no talk at all;
And then the people gave a call
For the Docthor to spake, and so he did,
But the Pazon first. And the little he said
Was very good. And The Lord had sent
The cholera for them to repent
And call upon His name, and turn!
He said; and His anger wouldn' burn
For ever, he said. And Our sins was great;
But come unto the mercy seat!
He said, and the crimson would be like the wool!—
Aw, capital texes! Beautiful!
So I was tould at them that heard—
And the Docthor didn' say a word
Against the Pazon, but bowin', though,
And, “Our respected vicar,” you know—
And that. Aw, bless ye! these Englishmen
Can do it with a taste they can—
Chut! of coorse! and readier far!
The Manx is awkward! yes, they are!
And excellent advise! and trustin'
They'd never forget; but for all they mustn'
Lave everythin' to the Lord, and sit
With their hands before them; but help a bit
Theirselves. And wouldn' the Lord be willin
Of a bit of whitewash goin' a spillin'
About the place? And what would they say
To begin and clear the middens away?
And then an ould fisherman got up
(I believe he had a little sup),
And strooghed the hair, the way with them chaps,
And a little spit and a little cough perhaps—
And says he, “The whitewash'll do very well—
But middens is middens, Masther Bell!”
He says. Aw, bless us! the laugh that was there!
“Middens is middens!” Aw dear, aw dear!
Billy Sayle they were callin' him,
But he was never gettin' no other name
After that but “Billy the Midden,”
And they wouldn' clane them; and they didn'!
And of coorse they were right! What nonsense—bless ye!
Them docthors, they're fit enough to disthress ye!
Capers! What's more comfortable
Till a midden about a house, if you're able
To have a midden, and keep it nice,
And anyways dry? And think of the price
Of dung and potatoes? You can't do without them;
And how will you be doin' about them
If you hav'n' a midden! Chut! they're clever,
But hasn' the smallest notion whatever
About dung—not them! And as for the stink—
A midden needn' be a sink!
Trim it nice upon the street,
And a midden'll smell as sweet as sweet,
And very wholesome. I know it depends
Altogether on who attends
To the lek, and careful in the spreddin';
But of coorse a man'll be proud of his midden.
Well, the whitewash done a power of good,
And slishin' it everywhere they could;
And the people began to take a heart.
And then some ranters come in a cart
From Foxdale over—a dozen or more—
And had a camp-meetin' on the shore,
And shouted there most desperate.
And there was ones come down from the Sandy Gate
And jined them, and barrels goin' a proppin'
Under the tills, and the preachers moppin'
Their faces, and all of them at it together,
And carryin' on; and the heat of the weather;
And water sarvin' out of a crock,
And singin' out like one o'clock,
And roarin' till the divils got hoarse,
And the women after them, of coorse!
And some of them was faintin' away
Like dead on the shore, I've heard them say.
And “Glory! glory!” was all the cry,
You know the way; and willin' to die!!
And Come, Lord Jesus! Come! Come! Come!
And the preacher goin' with his fist like a drum
On the front of the cart, and roarin' greatly—
Aw, enjoyin' hisself completely
When all of a sudden who should appear
But Docthor Bell! And “What's this here?”
He says; “You rascals!” he says, “be off!
Get out of this!” he says, “you scruff!”
And they said his voice was just like thunder,
And took and kicked the barrels from under,
And down went the cart and the preachers too.
And “Get home,” he says, to the women, “do!
Get home!” he says, “isn' that your place?”
He says; “I wonder you've got the face,”
He says, and “bad enough of the others,”
He says, “Aye, bad; but you that's mothers,”
He says, “It's the divil himself that's in't!
Go to your childher!” he says. And they went.
And he turns to the preachers—“Come, make racks!”
He says. “Indeed! and may I ax,”
Says one of them, “what's the meanin' of this?”
And cussin', and squarin' up with the fist
At the Docthor; “You're makin' very free,”
He says. “Come on! come on!” says he.
And the Docthor gripped him, though, they said,
Till he rattled the very teeth in his head.
“Let go!” he says, and black in the face;
“Let go!” he says, “let go, if you plaise.
Let go! God's sake!” and chokeder and chokeder.
“Ye dirty herpicrite!” says the Docthor,
And slacked the hoult, “a putty preacher!”
He says, “and cussin' like that; I'll teach yer!”
He says, “and wherever do you expec'
For to go to?” “I'm one of the elec',”
Says he. “Indeed!” says the Docthor, “indeed!”
He says, “I think I know the breed!
And who's electin' ye?” he says.
“You're in the gall of bitterness
And the bond of iniquity,” says the chap;
“Come,” says the Docthor, “yoke your trap
And cut, and don't come here again!”
“Well, maybe not, though,” says the men,
And yokes the cart, and cuts like winkin'.
The Docthor was middlin' hard, you're thinkin'?
Not a bit of him! What sense!
Don't you know what difference
It makes when people is losin' heart?
Aw, he was right to make them start!
For, if it's the cholera that's in,
You're wantin' all your strength to begin,
And courage to that. Aw, ye better belave,
Or send to the clerk to dig the grave.
Well, one way or another the sickness broke,
And then they were countin' who was took—
Just like after a battle, they're sayin',
They're goin' about to count the slain.
There was two at Cleator's, and two at Gick's,
And two at Corkhill's—that'd be six—
And three at Kewin's, and Shimmin's four,
Well, now, that'll be seven more;
And six and seven'll be thirteen,
And a baby took at Tommy Cregeen:
And Jemmy Cregeen he lost a son,
And Juan Quayle, and Nelly Bun,
And a boy of Callow's, and three of Creer's—
Gels, I think—and at Harry Tear's
There wasn' a soul in the house alive,
So that'll be makin' twenty-five.
But that wasn' all. I tell ye, then,
There was forty people dead at the Lhen.
I don't know was I born or not
Them times myself; but that's the lot!
That's the number they were tellin'
And no mistake. Ax Neddy Crellin!
All in a month, aye, every man of them!
And never no stone put up to the one of them,
No time, I tell ye, nor money, it's lek.
How could ye expec'? How could ye expec'?
So his work was done, and givin' a yawn,
And “That'll do!” he says, and goin',
And all the women wantin' to kiss him,
And down on their knees for God to bless him,
And home to Bigode, and not very bright,
And took hisself that very night!
Not to say bad, but bad is the best.
And made hisself a sort of nest
In the barn on a loft that was there, and a ladder
And a hatch goin' up, and lonesome rather.
And “Nobody,” he said, “to come near him
On no account, and never fear him!”
And a bottle of stuff; and “Go now! go!”
And when he was better he'd let them know.
So Mrs. Kelly was very willin',
And, faith! she'd rather till a shillin'
He'd never come there. Aw, 'deed, she said it,
And of coorse she wouldn' be havin' the credit
If he did get better, and “Very hard,”
She said. And some people didn' regard
For others, she said. And it wasn' there
He took it, she said. And how was it fair
To be sneakin' home to her, Pazon Gale!
She said, and the cholera to his tail;
And her with a family, and the harvis'
Coming on straight; and nathral narvis
(The Pazon was tellin'), and it wasn' lek;
And if Kelly had the laste respec',
The laste, she said, for the wife of his bosom,
He wouldn' suffer her to nuss him!
No, he wouldn'; but'd up to him straight,
And have him out that very night.
Yes, indeed! And eyein' Kelly,
And him sayin' nothin' but “Relly! relly!”
And “Bless me! bless me!” and hemmin' and hummin',
And the Pazon tryin' to coax the woman,
And done it, too, for anyway
The Docthor got libbity to stay.
But Kellies had a daughter, ye see,
And that was differin' totally.
Aw, dear! you'll easy understan',
A handsome man is a handsome man;
And if so be he's gennal, too,
What'd you have a gel to do?
For the Docthor would be everywhere,
And meetin' him upon the stair,
And houldin' herself for him to pass,
And stoopin' lek to hide her face,
And him goin' puttin' his hand on her head,
And strooghin'. And whatever he said,
And never thinkin', and just as well.
Aw, it was suction for the gel!
Suction! I tell you. How do I know?
Aw, Bobby! Bobby! you're foolish, though—
You're foolish! Is it knowin'? What!
Knowin' is knowin'; mind you that!
Knowin' is knowin'; and I'll tell ye how
The way's with me. I'll tell ye, now.
There's plenty o'things I never seen,
Nor couldn', and still they must have been;
And when I get thinkin' o' them, it'll be drawin'
The head uncommon strong, and showin'
The very picthure of them, it will;
And workin' and workin' terrible.
That's the knowin'. And—Bless me! what's at ye?
I wouldn' know anything if I didn' know it that way—
Seein' it in my head. That's it!
Chut! I wouldn' give a spit
For a story when it wasn' puttin'
Every hair and every button
The way it was, or was bound to be.
Do ye see the thing? D'ye see? d'ye see?
Maybe not! All right! all right!
Seein' is beein', says Tommy Tight:
And the way the head'll work is shockin'.
Not but ould Anthony's wife was talkin',
And 'd know them well, and livin' near—
Anthony's wife! Aw dear! aw dear!
Well, that's the way it was—like suction,
Didn' I say? And's been the destruction
Of many a gel, but not of her.
Aw, honour bright! And “Comin', sir!”
And tremblin' lek, and quick; and catchin'
Her eye away; and watchin', and watchin';
And 'd sit in the window, and wait and wait;
And startin' when she heard the gate;
And a bit of a ribbon in her breast;
And a sort of a kind of a disthress'd.
But happy and very humble, though!
And innocent. Chut! You know! you know!
Not hopin' much. But what's the use!
Lovin', lovin', like the deuce!
Aye! aye! The head is workin'? Ler it!
Workin'! That's the way you'll ger it.
But, drop it! drop it! Marianne
They were callin' her. And couldn' stan,
And couldn' sit; nor eat nor drink,
I tell ye; nor couldn' sleep a wink.
Aw, poor craythur! That's the way.
And droppin' the cups upon the tray,
Sudden lek; and houldin' the finger
For the little ones to hush; and 'd linger
Greatly, and all a kind o' suspicious,
Aye! lek it 'd be a sort of a vicious
(The head is workin', Bobby? What?)—
And cross with the childher, and sthooin' the cat
(Eh, Bobby? eh?); and turnin' and twissin',
Like a bitch when the pups is goin' a missin'.
Do you see her, Bobby? Run, man! run!
Hould her! hould her! Bobby is done!
Aw, seein' is nothin'! Ger along!
Just the strong the head, and drawin' strong.
Now, this poor gel was dyin' just!
Aw, terrible! And I wouldn' trust
But it's up on the laft she'd have taken straight—
Aye, by gough! the very night
The Docthor come home; but bashful, no doubt;
And the mother watchin' her in and out,
And got a notion what she had,
And gave it her in style, she did.
And “Lave her alone!” and “Bless my life!”
Says Kelly; but much afraid of the wife.
And “Stick to your work,” says the mother, “you slut!
And let me see you stir a foot
Till them priddhas is peelt.” And one by one
The big tears slushin' into the can.
(Workin', Bobby?—stronger and stronger?)
Well, at last the gel couldn' hould any longer;
For the heart was mostly bust at her.
So aisy! aisy! down the stair,
Just about when the day 'd be peepin';
And hushin' the dogs; and creepin', creepin';
And slips the boult; and her head all swimmin',
And her heart in her mouth! Aw, bless these women!
Wasn' she tellin' all the spree
Long after that to Misthress Lee?
And over the street, and never a shoe on;
And hardly knowin' what she was doin'—
Aw, a soft sort of thing! it's aisy belavin'—
But the love that was in her, and the cravin'—
Aw, soft, no doubt; and stupid rather;
And takin' mos'ly after the father.
And up to the loft, and stood a bit;
And never a sound. “He's dead! that's it!”
She says. “He's dead!” and all the love
Come upon the craythur, and strove
And wrestled with her, till she fell
On her knees beside him. And “Mr. Bell!
I'm here!” she says. “It's me!” she says;
“It's Marianne, sir, if you plaise”;
And sobbin' lek her heart would brek.
“Don't die! don't die!” and coaxin' lek.
Poor thing! poor thing! and what to do?
Very soft, but lovin', too!
Now, the Docthor wasn' dead, not him;
But lyin' in a sort of a dream—
Deep, though! deep! that you couldn' tell
Was there life in his body. So this here gel
Set to work—aw, I'll engage her!
And kissed his hand like for a wager;
And kissed and kissed. And a stunnin' cure—
Aw, uncommon! Aw 'deed for sure!
Kisses, I mean. Hands? I don't know,
But wantin' a dale of patience though.
But he woke at last, with a big long breath
Like swimmin' up from the bottom of death;
And the first he saw was this Marianne,
Which, in coorse, she dropped the hand,
And her own both clapped to her face like a shot
Aw, clapped enough; and as hot as hot!
And trimblin' terrible, kneelin' there.
Aw, trimblin'! trimblin'! never fear!
And the Docthor signin' for her to go—
Signin' still. But she wouldn'—no!
No, she wouldn'!—not a bit of her!—
Wouldn' go, nor wouldn' stir!
And there was the Docthor signin'—signin'
Most awful!—and her never mindin';
But trimblin' still, and couldn' spake,
Couldn' the Docthor, bein' that wake;
And signed for her to put her head
Close to his mouth. And so she did.
And whisperin'; and “she musn' stay!”
And “for all the sakes to go away!”
And then she got sulky all of a sudden,
And “she wouldn' go then! So she wouldn'—so she wouldn',
So she wouldn', too,” and makin' the lip
And sulkin', I tell ye—the little rip!
Then he tried to fie-for-shame her. And then
She bust a cryin'. So he couldn' pretend
Not to be noticin' any more,
And never seen the lek afore;
And cryin' and cryin' like the deuce—
And not the smallest bit of use.
So signs for her to stoop down low
(It's like he was workin' the eyes, you know,
Havin' lost the vice), and “Darlin'!” he said,
Quite hoast, and tryin' to sthroogh the head,
But as wake as water, “Darlin' pet!”
Meanin' only to coax her a bit,
The way she'd be goin'. Goin', indeed!
And the soul at her just beginnin' to feed.
Aw, take a baby from the diddy
Just when the mother's gettin' it ready!
Aw, bless your soul! them words was mate.
Darlin' ! he said; aw, did he say't?
And axin' him to say it again.
And was she his darlin'? Aw, was she, then?
Of coorse, of coorse! Just think of the drouth
That was in his heart and in his mouth;
And her like butter from the churn,
That fresh, and how could he help but yearn
To the sweet young breath that was comin' and goin'
Upon his face, like roses blowin'
In June, the way it says in the song?
Chut! He couldn'. Right or wrong.
Of coorse! of coorse! So it come at last—
The long, long kiss! Aw, the long it was!
And the rain of tears; and satisfied;
And “Aw, I thought I would have died,”
Says she, and “loved you from the first”;
And he fell asleep with his lips on hers.
Spooney! you're sayin'. Aye, man, aye?
Lies! you're thinkin'? Aw, divil the lie!
Wasn' it Anthony's wife that was talkin'?
Bless your heart! That woman was shockin'!
Never a thing that she was tould
But blabbed to every livin' soul!
But Mrs. Bell! You'd hardly suppose?
Chut! Bless ye! Goodness only knows.
Rather a foolish sort of a craythur!
And women, you know, it's in their nathur,
Colloguin' lek, and free of the tongue,
And braggin' the days when they were young.
And as for a secret, they cannot hould it.
And, well! No matter! The woman tould it.
Tould it? Aye! And missin' her
In the mornin', and lookin' everywhere,
And up on the loft. And what, what, what!
And slut! and hussy! and Come out of that!
And Oh! and what would the people say?
And Caught with the Docthor in the hay!
And Of all the troubles, and she'd had her share!
And the Kellies, too! Aw, dear! aw, dear!
The Kellies! The Kellies of Bigode!
And Bless her soul! she might have know'd!
And Oh, the artful! And Oh, the sly!
And the brat to her face, and begun to cry,
And blowin' her nose, and about her character.
And What to do? And Enough to disthract her!
And never a word from Marianne;
But the Docthor, which his voice was gone,
I was tellin' you, had it nicely back
That time; for kisses is good to slack
The throat, and a little love or so
Will make a man very lively, though—
Very; and so he shamed her grand,
And How was it she didn' understand?
And What was the good to be booin' there?
“You silly woman!” he said to her;
Aye, “silly,” he said; “and this poor child,”
And he laid his hand on her head, and he smiled—
“She knows no evil, Mrs. Kelly, mum;
And she thinks no evil,” and Well for some
If their hearts was as simple and innocent
As Marianne's. And what she meant,
And 'splainin' lek, and For goodness sake!
Aw, putty talk, and no mistake.
“And this little gel is tellin' me
She loves me. Loves me, though,” says he.
“Aye, aye! That's it!” says the woman, then.
“Nice work!” she says. “And 's took to the men
Middlin' early, and hav'n' lost
Much time,” she says, and The slut she was!
And this and that. Aw, the Docthor was mad;
And “Stop!” he said. And he said, the bad
The tongue was at her; and clane disagusted
He said he was, the way she distrusted
Everybody; and “Wait a bit!
Wait for all! God bless me! wait!
I was goin',” he says, “to tell the precious
This love is to me; the way it refreshes
My very soul,” he says; “the way
I clasp it.” “Claspin'! claspin', eh?”
Says she; “aw, claspin' enough, I beliv',
If it's claspin' you're at!” And what would she give
If she'd never!—and Kelly a local, too!
And whatever, whatever would she do?
“Now, listen!” he says; “God bless me! listen!”
And never saw such a iggrint pessin,
And'd rather have tould her another day;
But what could he do, and what could he say?
Not willin' to look like fo'ced, you know—
The way with them chaps that's bringin' to—
“What's your intentions?” that's the shout;
And had to speak out, and did speak out.
And, “We're goin' to be married, this little gel
And me—to be married,” says Docthor Bell.
“Goin' to be married!—married!” says she;
And clasps her hands, “Ma chree; ma chree!
Goin' to be married! And will you have her?”
Says she. “I wouldn' trust, however,”
Says he. “And will you have him?” she says
To the daughter. “Thank you, if you plaise,”
Says she, and cryin' for her life.
“Well, the imperince!” says Kelly's wife;
But jumps for joy, and runs to the laddher,
And down like a shot, to get the father;
And tripped, and groaned a little; but cut
Across the yard with a limp in her foot;
And, “Come, man! come! Make haste, for all!
And bless me! didn' ye hear me call?”
And the two of them up. And “A solemn occasion,”
Says Kelly; and has his apprerbation.
And sighin' a dale; and The coorse of events;
And A most mysterious Providence.
And Maybe a little bit of prayer?
And Would they objec'? And down with him there
On his knees, like a shot; and roared like sin,
And roared till the rafters was ringin' again,—
Roared! God bless your soul, the roar!
And blessin' their basket and their store,
And the olive branches around their table;
And freckenin' the hosses in the stable!
Aw, uncommon powerful, I'm tould, at the payin'!
And had him in the house, they were sayin'—
Had him in that very night,
And into the big bed with him straight.
So that's the way, you'll understan',
The Docthor married Marianne.
And the best of nussin', never fear!
And everybody gettin' to hear.
But the woman was right. Aw, terrible talk:
And “Deed on, Kellies!” and “Yandher gawk!'
And “Hooked the Docthor! have she? Aye!'
And nudgin', and winkin'; and “Never say die!”
And “Not a bad dodge!” and “Batin' us!”
And all to that! Aw, scandalous!
For, you see, they will if they gets the chance.
But I'm allis thinkin' of the fellow once—
In the Bible, you know—that said to his brother,
“Pull out the mote!” “Indeed!” says the other;
“Is it motes?” he says; “and talkin' to me!
Come out o' that with that beam!” says he.
And how about the lady, then?
Miss Harriet, of coorse, you mean.
Well, that's the thing. You've got me there!
Aw, got enough! For it's seemin' clear,
And promised, you know, and all to that,
The Docthor should have stuck to her. What?
Stuck to her? Aye! Aw, stuck, stuck, stuck!
And there's them that would, whatever the luck,
And no matter for fathers, and no matter for mothers,
Some people's stickier till others.
Well, I can't say was he thinkin' it betther
To bury his trouble altogether,
And this Marianne like bushes he'd have
Growin' there to hide the grave;
Or weak, just weak; or how would it be.
For if she married one of the quality
He might fancy she'd be happier,
Bein' used of the lek, and suitin' her,
Lek a man, you know, of her own persishin;
Aye, and the way her father was wishin'.
But what for wouldn' she be happy with him?
Well, raelly, I cannot tell ye, Jem;
But blood is blood lek, whether or not—
Blood is blood—you'll give in to that.
Aye, blood is blood, says you, and Bell's
Was every taste as good as the gel's.
No, no! my lad! You're out of it now.
Blood is blood, that I'll allow;
But there's odds o' blood, man, nevertheless—
Odds, man, odds!—that's the way it is.
Just prick your finger, you're sayin', and try
Isn' it the same. To which I rerply,
The same as what?—as a pig's or a sheep's
Or Bobby the Bull's, or Barney the Sweep's?
All right! all right! But a common pessin
The same as a gentleman's? No, it isn'!
Aisy! aisy! Don't cuss, my gillya!
I'll have no cussin' upon it, I tell ye;
No, I won't! So there's a stopper
Let's argufy it nice and proper,
And put it out the way it should.
Now, I'm perfect willin' blood is blood,
And chaps like you can't see no furder,
And thinks yourselves—Oh, murder! murder!
The foolishness a man'll be frothin'
When he hav'n' got knowledge, nor sense, nor nothin'!
But we're all from Adam! So I believe—
Certainly; and likewise Eve!
Fair play for the woman! The man was the blockhead!
She didn' put the apple in her pocket
Anyway, but gave him share,
And warned afore, but didn' care.
Aw, if it's Adam! that ould scamp!
He's not much of a examp' —
The very chap we got all the woe by;
He's not much of a man to go by!
You're middlin' hard up, I do declare,
Eh, Jem, when it's houldin' on to Adam you are!
But prick the finger, and then you'll see!
Prick the finger! goodness me!
What for the finger? Look! here goes!
Let's draw a drop from Jemmy's nose!
Ha, ha! That'll never do, Jem, will it?
You hav'n' got too much, Jem—you don't like to spill it;
Eh, Jem? Were you freckened?—were you freckened, lad?
No, you waren't! Well, don't be mad!
Just jokin' lek. I'm fond of Jem;
But smell that knuckle all the same!
You'll leave it to any docthor—eh?
Now, that's the very thing I was going to say.
A docthor's the man that'll tell ye the brew,
For he'll just be takin' a drop o' the two,
And he'll clap his glass, and see in a minute
The little insec's that's swimmin' in it.
Insec's! aye! The divil! you're sayin'.
Aisy! aisy! Robert Cain!
Divils! no! But little roundy things.
Who said divils? Divils has wings.
Well, I think if I didn' know
Nothin' about nothin', I'd leave it so.
A cock shouldn' fight if he's got no spurs;
And them that's had the advantagers,
Lek me, bein' thick with docthors that way,
It isn' raisonable at ye, eh?
Docthors! Bless ye! and who'd there be
Knowin' about docthors, if it wasn' me?
Some right, I think, and seen him strainin'
The lek through a sieve, and stuff remainin',
The way with the milk when they're takin' and silin' it.
Aye, and bilin'it—actual bilin' it!—
Afore he'd be done. But he'd know by the smell,
And the colour. Dear me! It's aisy to tell.
Havn' you never heard them talkin'
About blood that was blue (I'll have no mockin')?
Yes, blue! Well, that's the thing, ye see.
Blue and red! That's the way it'd be.
And the smell the same, and natheral,
If you think of the rearin', and feedin', and all.
Only consider the stuff they're gerrin!
None of your barley-bread, priddhas and herrin',
Or that; but the best of beef and fowls,
Cowld and hot; and salmons and soles;
And candy sugar and lemonade;
And cakes, and every pissave that's made;
And puddin's and pies, and tarts and jellies,
Takin' and slashin' them into their bellies,
And wine in buckets! And— Chut! It's no use—
That's the stuff that's workin' the juice
Of their blood. And straint and double straint,
Of coorse; and makin' it smell like saint!
Aw, ye better believe it. But never mind!
Kith is kith, and kind is kind!
Well, for sure, they got married, though;
And the weddin' that was at them. Mortal show!
Aw, uncommon! Never fear!
And the mostly half of the parish there.
And a terrible speech at Masther Coole,
And ould Kelly himself as drunk as a fool;
But solemn lek; and'd'a took a prayer,
But gripped at the wife, and didn' dare.
And forced to be watched. And the head goin' cockin';
And the hem! And the knees goin' knickin'-knockin'!
Ready the minute the woman'd stir,
And her eyin' him, and him eyin' her.
And—“Oh!” he says, “Thy love possessin'!”
And spreadin' the hands like a sort of blessin'.
Well, that was Kelly—couldn' stan'!
And talk to put him off the plan—
At the Methodists, you know; but didn'.
And—Who was yandher that was goin' a biddin'
To the marriage feast in Cana there?
And some of them hearty enough, that's clear.
And—'Scusable to get a little tight
Just on your daughter's weddin' night.
And—The best of men was apt to be floored
In a season. And—“Glory to the Lord!”
And—“Dear brother Kelly,” and “Yes,” and “No,”
And smilin', and “Well to be watchful, though.”
And the shuperintendan' goin' a bringin'
From Douglas over, and prayin' and singin',
The way you know with them Ranthar fellows;
And Kelly sighin' like a bellows!
And all made up, though, very nice,
The ould people was tellin'. And—For them to rejice,
Says the preacher. And “See the effec' of grace!”
Aw, the Bigode was a shockin' comfibil place!
Aw, comfibil—very comfibil!
And handy for the praechers still.
Aw, porridge or puddin', cowld or hot;
Fish or flesh. I know the lot.
Give them a smell—give them a smell!
Aw, bless your soul! It's easy to tell
Praechers is it? Don't I know them?
Bloodhounds isn' nothin' to them!
Aw, they couldn' do without Bigode!
Craeture comfits—that's the road!
And—“The labourer worthy of his hire!”
And the little table up to the fire;
And a drop of punch, and shammin' weak,
And riftin' lek. And—“Take man—take!
Aw, take!” And strooghin' down the belly;
And—“Sesther, sesther! Relly, relly!”
Aw, they knows the spot, and sticks to it,
By gough. And sure enough it's writ
“Go not about from house to house.”
Catch a praecher! Catch a louse!
Well, the week was hardly flown
Afore there was terrible meetin's goin'!
Meetin's, meetin's! One at the Bull,
And resolutions to the full.
And all the fishermen come swarmin',
And ould Bobby Jinks at them for a chairman.
And another up at the miners' store.
Aw, they said there was never the lek afore.
All the captains about was arrit,
Captain Row and Captain Garrett.
He was a Cornish man was yandher Row,
Aw, a fuss-rate captain, though.
Fuss-rate enough, and done a speech—
Aw, scandalous! And Neddy Creech,
That was keepin' the store, though, wouldn' be bet,
But up like a shot and seconds it.
And the Pazon had a meetin', too,
And the wardens there. And what to do.
And Tommy Tite gave a propogician
For the Pazon to take, and start a petition,
Or whatever they're callin' it, and statin'
“The general wish.” And then a meetin'
Of the whole parish, and givin' it out
In the church a' Sunday; and what was it about.
And for all to be sure to come, however.
Aw, 'deed the Pazon done it clever,
And had the meetin' in the school,
And people comin' down from Barrule,
And everywhere they heard the call,
Fishermen, farmers, miners, and all.
Bless me the jingin' and the jammin',
They were tellin'; and speeches goin' uncommon—
Aw, puttin' out fuss-rate, mind you!
At the Pazon there and Neddy Follew,
That was one of the Keys, and Ruchie Quirk,
That was water-bailiff. Aw, dear, the work
That was in! And the Pazon's petition read,
And To Dr. Bell, M.D., it said,
And their grateful hearts And the terrible skill,
It was sayin'. And impossible to tell
Their feelin's lek. And requestin', then,
He'd come down from Bigode, and live at the Lhen.
Aw, done with a taste, I'm tould. Aw, splendid!
Aw, the man that could, and proper ended—
“Petitioners will ever pray.”
You know the way! you know the way!
And proposed and seconded; and a roar,
I was tould, like thunder; and the chaps at the door,
Hurra! hurra! the way they'd buss;
Hurra! and carried munanermous—
Munanermous! Aw, tear your shirt!
Nemine commine—that's your sort!
But they had to build a house for him, too;
For there wasn't one at the Lhen would do,
Just a corner of a craft
Of Tommy Tite's, that was lettin' aff —
Sundered-lek from the rest of the farm
That was there, and a terrible mortgage arrim;
And the hous mortgaged, too. Aw, bless your mammee!
Your soul to glory! That was Tommy!
And Kelly, of Bigode, you see,
Was goin' bond and security
For the lot. Aw, well the ould divil knowed
The nice bit o' backin' that was in Bigode—
Aye, by gough, and the fishermen
Took a notion to begin
And build a boat for the Docthor; the way
He blackguarded yandher cholera.
Lek grateful-lek; and down at the Bull
Plannin', plannin', to the full—
Aw, plannin' regular, but couldn' agree;
And if they could, it's a wondher to me;
For lines is lines, you'll understand,
And allis better to lave it to one;
And did at last, but afore it come
To that, the most of a barrel of rum
Was drunk. Aw, fit enough it's lek
To float her. And Harry Injebreck
Head man agate o' the talkin' still,
And arguin', arguin', terrible!
And “Have a builder!” says Harry, “and pay'm;”
And “Baem for ever! Give her baem!”
Baem was allis Harry's shout.
And, “God bless me! what are you talkin' about!”
Says another; and cussin'; and “Baem's your call.
But we'll build the boat ourselves, for all—
Build her ourselves!” and down with the fiss,
And “Hear! hear! hear!” and “Yes! yes! yes!”
And how, and when, and would it be batthar
To have a round starn, or a counter at her;
And carver or clinker, and dandy rig,
Or what, and wait for Shimmin's brig,
Or last year's timber? And “What's your hurry?”
And “Strek while it's hot!” and “Furree! furree!”
You know their way; but left the job
At last to Dicky-Dick-beg-Dick-Bob.
Now, Dicky was a mortal religious chap,
That never drunk nothin' stronger till pop.
Catch him at Callow's! Aw, the very pick
Of a fine ould Methodist was Dick—
The rael ould sort; the first that was
When Wesley come preachin' on the Cross
In Dhoolish there; and good men, too!
The pity of them is the few,
And most of them gone to Heaven. Aw, dear!
The ones that's now— Aw, well, I'll swear
Ould Wesley wouldn' know them a bit.
“Ger out!” he'd say: that's it! that's it!
Aw, worldly! worldly! But, Ruchie Fell,
Bless ye! I remember him well.
I don't think it's ten years since he died—
Ten, would it be, for Hollantide?
Aye, ten! Aw, a nice ould man, but streck,
And terrible religious lek.
And hard to say, says Molly the Spud,
But there's some o' them is very good.
And that was the way with Dick, for sure—
Aw, good, I tell ye; good thallure!
I've heard them sayin' that from his youth
The Lord was with him of a truth—
Aw, a sweet ould craythur, whatever there was in of him;
Aw, a sweet ould man, to the very skin of him.
White and dry, you know, and that;
And all the suck and all the fat
Strained out of him; but as sweet as a bebby!
And the face, you know, a kind of a slebby
With the shine, and his breath like a sort of a balsam,
The poor old thing! that sweet and wholesome.
But feeble though, and desperate troubled
With these rheumatics. Aw, I've seen him doubled
Many a time; but patient with such—
Sighin' a little, but not so much.
And a little smile, and a little hem—
They're lookin' very holy is them.
Well—Ruchie it was, and never dus'
Put a hand but a fit of prayer over it fus' —
Aw, prayin' reg'lar the Lord'd give signs
To his soul for to help him with yandher lines.
You're lookin'! Look then! Look again!
Chut! what's the use for me to explain!
Aye! prayin' about yandher lines, d'ye hear!
Prayin' the Lord'd make them clear—
Lek drawin' the pecther of them for him—
Lek houldin' them there till they're copied arrim —
Lek givin' a list to his soul to go
The way the Lord'd be wantin' you know,
For him to stretch. And rather dim,
And a sort of far off—lek liftin' him
To see them lek—the way you'll lif'
A child to see the father's skiff
Close-hauled for the shore. But what's the use!
Leave it alone, then; and go to the deuce!
I know what I mean. You didn' doubt it?
Well then let's have no more about it.
But it's on my mind, and look here! I don't care
I'll say it, I will, there's a deal in prayer,
A deal! Why, bless your life, I've heard
A chap on a coach that didn' regard
For God or divil, and cocked up as grand
On the dicky there like a gentleman,
And the whole of the coach there listenin' to him,
And had it all his own way—blow him!
A skinny chap—I know the crew!
Aw, a reg'lar cock-a-doodle-do!
“Dear me!” he says, “and aren' you aware
It's all a delusion,” he says, “is prayer?”
“It's settled,” he says, “at the head men goin',
It's settled!” And an ould man there gave a groan,
And a woman with a child at the breast
Fie-for-shamed him; but all the rest
Was just like sheep; and me rather tight—
Saturday night, you know—Saturday night!
Tom Cowle was drivin' himself that Spring—
Teetotal, but reason in every thing,
And a drop is a drop; and civil is civil,
And half asleep! So I says to this divil,
“What's that?” I says. “Delusion, is it?
Delusion!” I says. “Look out for your gizzit!”
I says: “here's a little delusion of mine!”
And I took the chap, and I sent him flyin'—
What! off the coach? Aye! hove him clear!
I must have broke his neck? Aw, never you fear!
Aw, I wouldn' trust but I gave him a mark—
But I don't know—it was rather dark.
Didn' he follow? Aw, that'll do!
Aisy! Aisy! The same for you!
I was talkin' about Ruchie Fell,
And the prayer that was at him. Well! well! well!
And prayer is stronger the most that jines—
But prayer it was that done them lines,
And Ruchie's prayer; and never a soul
To back him, but all alone, I'm tould;
All alone—and the first he got
Was the run; and, by gough! I know the spot—
The Roman Chapel that was down at the Race,
That's where the Lord was givin' him grace
To think the run. And had it as clane,
Aw, bless ye it might have been smoothed with a plane
And ready for boultin', the clane he had it—
And the next was the entrance —yo'll hardly credit,
But I've heard them tellin' it for a fac',
He was out two tides on the top of the Stack,
And never a bite; but waitin', waitin',
And the head in the hand, the people was statin',
Till the Lord'd be pleased, and come at last
In a kind of music, like a sort of a bass,
He was tellin', from the very heart of the sea;
And all the water in the bay
Was playing music; and like as if
The floor of his soul was broke in a rif',
Or a chink, or the lek. And he took and stooped
Inside of hisself; and a place lek scooped,
And the bearin's there lek drew with a pen,
And words, and “For Jesus' sake, Amen,”—
And a light goin' sthrooghin'; and a A and a O,
Like you'll see in a church. Aw, he had them, though!
He had them, I tell you, as puffec' as puffec'!
And who come by but Masthar McGuffock
(Collecthor McGuffock); and hails him there,
And aboard with him. And says he, “What cheer?”
And about the wind; and how was the signs?
And “Glory!” he says; “I've got the lines!”
Poor thing! like one of them saints in a pecther.
The laugh, they were sayin', tha' was at the Collecthor!
And home to bed. And the wife couldn' tell
What was the matter with Ruchie Fell.
Stiff as a fit he was, and the eyes
All strained with light, and twice the size.
And “I see her!” he says; “she's afloat! she's afloat!
God bless the boat! God bless the boat!
The very lines! the very, very!”
He says. And “Sterry,” he says, “there! sterry!
Wait till Jesus'll take the tiller!”
He says; and frecknin' poor ould Bella
Most terrible. And “Look! He's gor it!
Crack on!” says Ruchie; “now then for it!
She's true!” he says; “not an inch beyond that!
No she'll not! no she'll not!
I tould ye!” he says, “the speed! the speed!”
And “Jesus! the Saviour! the Friend in need!”
Aw, the poor ould soul! Ye see the hard
They were workin' in him from the Lord—
Them lines. But when she was built, however,
The Friend in Need was the name they gave her.
Aye, and couldn' a better fit
Of a name, if you'll only think of it.
A friend in need, as you may say—
The Docthor, you know, and the cholera.
So the boat was built. Aw, they wouldn' be hoult;
And every trennel and every boult
The best of stuff. Aw, clubbed together,
And bound to have it, and didn' considher
The 'spense nor nothin'—not a fig!
And three lugs at her—that was the rig—
And raked a bit, three reg'lar scutchers,
And carried her canvas like a ducherss.
Aw, the Docthor could handle her like a Briton!
But the beauty of that boat was the sittin'—
Like a duck! Aw, none of your trimmin' sort—
This way, that way; a pig to port;
A pig to starboard; shiftin' aft;
Shiftin' forward! They're makin' me laugh,
Them chaps with their yachts, the onaisy they are!
And the delicate and the particular!
Chut! the trim is in the boat!
Ballast away! but the trim's in the float—
In the very make of her! That's the trimmin'!
And, by gough, it's the same with men and women;
For, look here! if a man— But, bless my soul!
What's the odds! I'm runnin' foul
Altogether, and no time to lose;
But “Forge ahead!” says Billy Baroose.
So the Docthor come to live at the Lhen,
Where I tould ye there, just at the end;
Lek in the varginity of the shore;
And the mortal brass plate upon the door,
And “Docthor Bell”—aw, a foot at laste—
Chut! I tell ye, a credit to the place!
And a lot of letters statin' what
And who, and a member of this and that!
Bless ye! I don't understan'
Their capers! Where's the divil that can?
But the brass plate— I think I should;
Didn' I stick it all over with mud
One night, and took at the Docthor and hauled
In at him there, and roared and bawled!
But had to take it howsomdever—
My gough! the bitter!—but took it clever.
And out in the street, and cussed tremindjis!
Aw, cussed the very door off the hinges!
Cussed, I tell ye, aw, all I had
Through the keyhole, you know. Aw, very bad!
Well, the next thing the boat was goin' a presentin';
And then our chaps was rather for slantin',
Bein' very bashful for a job like yandher.
And a man they were callin' “Nicky the Gander”
Was for havin' a tea-party over it,
Bless your sowl! And the whole of the kit
Of the farmers' wives to be givin' trays!
And a band from Dhoolish! He couldn' never take aise,
Couldn' that chap, with his capers—no!
A fuss-rate man for the talkin' though!
But I've heard the all he got for his pain
Was “Nicky again! Nicky again!”
And laughin', roullin' off the settle;
And “Give Nicky his tea!” and “Where's the kettle?”
Poor little divil! a weaver he was:
Small—aw, small; but as bould as brass!
But it was the Pazon for all that done the deed,
And christened her the Friend in Need:
And a bottle of wine, and all correct—
And somethin' stronger I'll expect—
And signin' her there, like a baby! And then,
“Hats off! my lads!” “Amen! Amen!”
Says the clerk, very sollum. “Hip! hip! hip! hip!
Hoorah!” says the chaps. “Let's give her the dip!”
And “One—two—three,” and swings the boat;
And in the water with her like a shot.
And “Make way for the Docthor!” and a desp'rate crowd,
And the young wife steppin' as proud as proud,
And linkin' there; and the chin goin' cockin',
And heisin the perricut to show her stockin',
Like any lady; and a plank, and pretendin'
The freckened, you know; and goin' a handin'
Over the side at the Pazon; and a beautiful cushion
In the stern-sheets there, and sittin' and blushin'.
Aw, happy! I tell ye. And Harry Corrin
Aboard for a skipper—sailin' forrin,
Bless ye!—and sets the lugs, and away!
And sails her up and down the bay.
And ould Kelly, they were sayin', was standin' there;
And they could hardly hould him but a bit of prayer;
But houldt; and groans, and
goes his ways;
And “All is vanity!” he says.
Well childher come to the Docthor though,
Mary, the ouldest—a gel you know;
And then a chap they were callin' Will;
And then Miss Katty—that's with him still—
Much younger though, for Will and Mary
Was close together; but the little faery—
A name they had for Miss Katherine—
Was years behind, just lek she'd bin
Run lek off another spool
Altogether; and the yalla hair like gool—
Aw, the Lord's own gool in the very warp of her,
Like strings, lek He'd tuk and made a harp of her
For th' play up yandher, the way it's sayin'
In Revelations—playin', playin',
And the lovely twang goin' pling—pling—pling;
And “Hallelujah to the King!”
And all the sweet and all the wise
Blowin' out in two big eyes
As blue—and the little stalk of a body at her
Lek it's put to a flower to hould it batthar
Up to the sun; but stoops for all,
And hangs the head, and natheral;
For the sun is a bould thing anyway,
Aw, bould enough, and coorse at the play—
But the little body! bless ye! the slandharst
You ever—like these polyanthars—
Convolv'lars—deep in the throat, you know,
And the honey guggling down below;
And the bumbees snugglin' there, and pokin'
Their nozzles in, and soakin', soakin',
And clartin' their legs as sticky as glue;
And a pleasant sound they're makin' too—
And sip and sip—what they call egsthractin'—
Bless me! the pretty them critters is actin'!
But bumbees—bumbees! and in and out,
And soakin'— What am I talkin' about?
Little Miss Katty! Aye! aye! aye!
Little Miss Katty. Aw, well I could cry
To think of that little thing—the forsaken
She was at them there, and the way she'd be takin'
Far over though to the end of the sands;
And the feet, and the little ankle-bands—
Slip—slip—slippin', or gettin' stuck
Altogether in the muck,
And scoopin' it out with some shell or another,
And freckened she'd be took at the mother.
Aw, dear the little lonely thing,—
Just like a bird with a broken wing;
And the lookin' up, and the little eye,
Lek axin' the for it cannot fly,
And divil the one of the rest'll stay with it—
The dirty things—that used to play with it.
Fowls is very bad at that;
I don't know about gulls, but lekly not,
That's a dale more innocenter altogether,
Bein' strong, and free, and used of the weather.
Poor little thing—the droopin' lek,
And the wondrin' why! It'd 'a made ye sick,
The servant was tellin', the way she was knockin'
About at them there—aw, boosely shockin'!
At the Doctor? No! but the mother! Aye!
The mother—bless ye! aw, never say die!
You were talkin' of blood—then what's your shout
To kickin', I wonder! Chut! Ger out!
Kickin', and givin' her over the head
With a rowlin'-pin—that's what the woman said—
And lookin' like it. Bruk complete—
Reg'lar bruk! And was she gettin' mate
I don't raelly know—the little bud!
Aw, the withered—yes! You were talkin' of blood!
Well, that's the woman! Strict! Not her!
Treacle turned to vinegar—
That's about it! Strict's no fool;
There's stuff in Strict, that's got a rule
And works it, eh! But yandher woman!
Doeless, doeless, aw, doeless uncommon!
Bless your sowl! it wasn' in her
To be strict; and, of a manner,
The stupidest people'll be the cruelest.
Reggilar—just doeless, doeless!
And was from the first, I'm tould; but showin'
Some pride in herself, and for her to be goin'
For a doctor's wife, and lovin' the man,
Aw, I dessay lovin', aw, lovin' him grand!
Aw, aisy to think; and buckin' up,
Aw, ye better believe it! the very top
Of the tree was what she was lookin' for—
The Bishop, aye, and the Gōvënor,
The Deemsters and the Clerk of the Rowls,
Archdeacons, and that! Aw, bless your sowls!
The woman was rather short, that's it,
And couldn' put out the talk that was fit
For the lek of them; nor didn' know
When to stop and when to go,
And chatter—chatter—chatter—chatter,
And all the ladies laughin' at her;
And couldn' see the fool she was;
And the Docthor lookin' very cross,
I'm tould; and wouldn' do at all,
And the higher the flight the worse the fall;
And drew the game the soonest he could.
Now, what have you got to say about blood?
Chut! whatever the milk is like the chase is;
So that's your aequal! Go to blazes!
But tried, though, hard, and wouldn' give in—
Aw, obstinate astonishin'!
And I'm tould when she was puttin' a sight on Bigode,
She was fit enough to sweep the road,
The grand, aw, bless ye! Feathers flyin',
Like a paycock, all over her; and eyin'
The midden, and sniffin, and houldin' the scent —
Disagusted, you know, and lek to faint.
And if a pig was killin', though,
Or a sheep—the way with farmers, you know—
Or dung puttin' out, or the lek of yandher,
Aw, bless your soul! it was fit to send her
In 'vulsions, aye! And “my narves!” she'd say;
“My narves!”—and the divil and all to pay.
And the mother and her had words, I belave,
About it there, and what would she have?
And “ger out!” And raisonable too,
And wouldn' stand it; and gave her the sthoo
Over the street, and “away with ye, then!”
And might have heard her at the Lhen.
Now, all the Docthor was wantin' was only
Fair play for the woman, that'd been very lonely—
Sundherd from her own people, you see,
And makin' no friends with the quality.
Fair play! fair play! and had it plenty;
Fair play! fair play! and hardly twenty—
Aw, had it enough, but wuss and wuss,
Till it's lek the Docthor saw he muss,
And dropt it altogether—straight
Lek you'd do with a dog that wouldn' fight,
Or fightin' awkward, and havn' a chance;
Aw, under your arm with the lek at once,
And pay the stakes, and cut away!
You've drew the dog, that's all they can say.
And the divil looks foolish, but he knows what he's at,
He'll eat his supper, I'll bet you that.
Well, the Docthor drew his dog, for all;
But very cheerful, I've heard them tell,
And kind; and thinkin' how would it be
When she'd have a little family:
Aye, and puttin' his heart in it.
But yandher bogh took a sulky fit,
And wouldn' care for nothin', I'm tould;
And wouldn' laugh, and wouldn' scowl;
And wouldn' be sorry, and wouldn' be glad;
And wouldn' be pleased, and wouldn' be mad;
But just like a log of wood in the house—
Aw, bless ye! Give me any trouss,
That's got a taste of somethin' at her—
I don't regard is it sweet or bitter,
Or what; but these pin-janes of women,
That'll hardly look up when they hear ye comin',
And when ye'll kiss them, 'll put their cheek
Lek a stone, and hardly ever speak,
And never quick, and never slow,
Nor never even a bit of jaw
To freshen a man; but goin', goin';
And what they're thinkin' you're never knowin',
But smoothed all over in sulks! Aw, dart!
It's like a slug going creepin' over your heart.
Aw, avast with the lek! Aw, give me a fight—
A reg'lar rattler every night!
And make it up; and happy again!
A man can't live upon pin-jane.
And there wasn' a thing the woman hadn'—
Aw, he didn' spare, the Docthor didn',
To plaise her at all,—aw, no, I'll swear!
A most beautiful parlour at her there;
The teens of pounds, I tell ye, the teens;
And mahogany, like any queen's,
And a chandeleer just like an assimbly,
And a lookin'-glass against the chimbly,
And the best of chayney; and silks and satins,
And a gool watch, bless ye! and a pair of pattins;
And all complete, I've heard them sayin'—
And how the divil could she complain?
And didn'; but you know their way—
And the Docthor workin' night and day,
And had enough to earn a livin'
Betwix' the Lhen and Derbyhaven:
And fo'ced to be away from home
For days; and the far wasn' nothing to him,
But a horse, of coorse, and can't be kep'
On priddha -peelin's; and havn' slep'
A week at a time, the Mountain Third
And Ronnag way; aw, workin' hard.
And there's not much jink at the Ronnag chaps,
Nor the fishermen nither, but a goose perhaps,
Or a sheep, or a string of callag or blockin';
Just on the chance, and never knockin',
But in on the back-kitchen, you know,
And down with the lot, and away you go;
No count nor bills, no tally nor check;
But take your change out of yandher lek.
Aw, aisy ways; the most you owed,
A ridge of priddhas, or a load
Of turf, and lave it at the door,
All right! And musn' be hard on the poor.
But had it, aye, and parfact willin',
Aw, value to the very last shillin'.
No doubt of that; and swop is swop,
But you can't take a sheep to a draper's shop,
Nor yet a goose. D'ye hear him, Bill?
The lek goin' kankin' into the till—
Of coorse, of coorse! That would be a caper!
“Kank, kank!” says the goose. “Ger out!” says the draper.
Aw, dear! aw, dear! you'd be lookin' silly—
“Ger out!” says he. Eh, Billy, Billy?
But it's aisy obsarved that over yandher,
Sheep or shepherd, goose or gandhar;
And paid like that, the Docthor couldn'
Have very much over to go for puddin'.
But done his best; and goin' still,
And as comfible as comfible!
And no doubt the fish out of yandhar boat
Would be lek to be puttin' somethin' to't.
I tould you the Docthor could manage her splendid;
But pleasure mostly—the way intended.
Then the childher come, you'll understand!
And takin' in a bit of land—
About half an acre—from Tommy Tite.
Aw, it's himself could fix it right—
Cabbages and harbs, ye see,
Convenient for the 'spansary!
All as nice, with painted rails,
And a limpy gull to work the snails,
And the Docthor delighted; but Misthress Bell—
Well, you know, you couldn' hardly tell;
Just souldjerin' up and down the walk,
And the foot like lead and the face like chalk.
Aw, I mind her myself, the long, and the skin
All drew at her, but ouldher then.
But yandhar two imps—aw, Lord deliver!
Was the two most desp'rate divils that ever!
Aw, the cheek of the two! You'll mind them Ned;
And all the tricks and the capers they had;
And the blackguard talk, and the imperince.
Aw, many a time I've thought of it since,
Where did they get it, for it wasn' cussin'
And swearin' only till they were bussin'!
I don't know for the cussin' was the gel so bad,
But I believe in spert she was wuss till the lad.
But it wasn' the cussin', for all, so much,
Nor the blackguard talk—bein' used of such—
But the imp'rince, and the monkey tricks,
And the mockin', aye; and'd cut their sticks
Like the mischief, and the innocent face,
If you caught them; but give them the smallest 'crease,
My gough! the abuse! and then “Three cheers!”
And the stones comin' flying about your ears;
And laughin', and away they goes,
And cockin' the finger to the nose!
Aw, nath'ral divils, brew or bake,
Aw, natheral; and no mistake!
Natheral; so who's to blame?
But there was terrible little done for them—
Terrible! for the Docthor couldn',
Bein' much from home; and the misthress wouldn'—
Just starin' at them like a cow,
And them carryin' on goodness knows how.
And stealin', I tell ye, all over the place,
And darin' the woman to her face.
And when they had nothin' else to do,
They'd stick to and pinch one another black and blue,
And rag and fight, and the crockery flyin'
Like dust betwix' them; and the mother eyein'
The pair, and “Stop your noise!” she'd say,
And never mindin', and tearin' away,
That should have been took across her knee,
And whipped of coorse immadiently.
Aw, I've hommered that little chap, I have,
And the hard and the tough, you wouldn' belave;
And never give in, but out with the tong,
And hiss like a serpent, and as strong as strong,
Like iron on the anvil just.
And I tould the mother herself I must;
For the little divil was at me still,
And “If you'll not do it,” I says, “I will”—
And bedad I did, and before herself too,
And hommered him well; but, all I could do,
The very next minute he was over the wall,
And cussin' as hard as he could bawl;
And sticks and stones and sludge and muck,
Aw, the two of us, I tell ye, had to duck;
And says she, “It's all your fault,” she says!
“Why couldn' you leave him alone at the fess?”
But the Doctor wasn' knowin' half
The bad they were; for they'd plenty of craft
Them two; and the mother wouldn' tell:
And he was terrible fond, was Doctor Bell
Of the childher, and makin' some sort of life
In the house, and a kind of a change from the wife,
That'd sit like a block, and them all springs,
And lookin' little innocent things
Enough, but artful, artful still,
And takin' advantage terrible.
Aw, well, I've nothin' to say agen' him,
For the blood of a rael man's heart was in him;
And that's the thing to make others good—
Aw, never spare it! heart's blood, heart's blood!
That's the stuff, I tell ye then,
That'll search the souls of the sons of men;
More preciouser till any pearl,
Or ruby—the very juice of the world,
That keeps its veins from runnin' dry,
And tickles its ould ribs with joy,
And sin and sorrow, but never mind!
A power to make us sweet and kind—
In Jesus' heart the stream began,
But it's in the heart of every man;
Isn' it, boys? Am I preachin' now?
Aw, well; I'll drop it, but you'll all allow
The Docthor hadn' much chance to order
Them childher aright; so I'll not go furder.
But that wasn' much of a nest, you know,
For a little thing to be born into,
Like yandher I was tellin' you of—
The youngest—eh? Not very soft
Nor warm, it's lek; no moss, nor wool—
Bless my heart, the beautiful!
Goolfinches, you know, and the lek of them;
Yellowhommers, too, is much the same.
But aisy! aisy! What am I talkin'?
Poor little Kattie. Before she was walkin',
Them two was at her—just like from heaven
A little angel took and given
To them two divils a purpose to treat her
Most boos'ly! Aw, the little craythur!
She hadn' no life with them from the fess;
And the mother encouragin' them in it—yes!
Encouragin'—for, as I'm a sinner,
Aw, there was something woke a spirit in her
At last, I tell ye. Let be! let be!
But a spirit of hate and misery—
A spirit that crawled in her soul, and spat—
God save our souls from a spirit like that!
Hard! it was hard—very hard for some,
But I tell you how the spirit come.
A week or two after Miss Katty was born,
There was a letter, you know, that was evident for'n —
And the Docthor from home; so opens it,
Bein' curious. And what was there writ,
Do ye think now, in the letter there?
It was from his ould sweetheart; aw dear, aw dear!
It was though, sure enough; aw, 'deed!
It was from her, the very screed.
And Sir John was dead; and—was he the same
As ever? and willin' to change her name
Torectly; and off'rin' heart and hand—
The talk they have, you'll understand.
And the money, bless ye, and the proppity,
And everythin'; but that wouldn' be
Wrote there of course. The gel 'd know better—
Aw, a modest, lovin', beautiful letter!
And maybe there's women that 'd 'a seen the thing,
And pitied the two, and took the ring
Off their finger, and said—“I know
All! Take this! take this, and go!”
Not him! but on with it again,
And swears for ever and ever, Amen;
And clasps her to his heart, Good Lord!
And not another word! not another word!
But trust, and hope, and confidence—
Some people you see has got the sense.
So the Docthor came home, and in from the stable,
And the letter a' purpose on the table,
Open, you know (she'd took and read it
To the servant—aye! you'd hardly credit!
Never was a lady, and never would be.
To the servant, I tell ye, as nice as could be:
Aye, and tould her to watch him, too,
To see whatever he would do).
But the Docthor had shut the door, she found;
And listened and listened, but never a sound
For hours; and tried the door at last,
But locked at him, bless ye, and boulted fast.
It'd be daylight when he came out of yandher, though,
And up the stairs, but very slow;
And in on the room where the wife was lyin',
And fast asleep, and the baby cryin';
And put the letter on her breast;
And took the child and kissed, and kissed
The little thing, and hushed it grand;
And put it back to the mother again—
And out and down, and saddled the hoss,
And away with him, like an albatross:
And up to the Mooragh, and seen at a chap
That was cutting turf, and “Stop! man, stop!”
But never a word, but on and on,
And his face was fixed on the risin' sun—
The straight you'll see a pigeon flyin',
Lek drew to the art where his love is lyin'.
But when the day was rose, he turned,
And the fire that was in his heart had burned
Itself away, and dropped the rein,
And very slow, and home again;
And up to the wife; and just one look
Betwixt the two, and the nither spoke,
And the letter crumpled in the clothes,
And her eye that hard the way a man knows
She knows—the look that leaves no doubt,
The last dead light of love gone out.
So he left her straight; but from that day
He wasn' the same man anyway.
But as for her, she didn' bother
Much about him, bein' able to smother
Her soul complete, or maybe for spite—
I don't know, and it's hardly right
To condemn the woman. She done her part
The best she could. God knows the heart—
God knows the heart, but only one thing,
She shouldn' ha' took it out of that young thing;
But did. Aw, did; and shameful to her,
And wouldn' give her suck no more,
Lek wantin' the very milk that was in her
To turn to stone. And thinner and thinner
The little darlin', and cries and cries,
And the dead light in the mother's eyes—
Lek stupid with the heaviness
Of hate that was swimmin' in her breast,
And cloggin' her head, and turnin' the strain
Of love, till it was bitter again.
Aw, she did hate her though, she did;
And them two imps as glad as glad.
And pettin' them, and cockin' them up,
And encouragin' them; and that young pup—
Aw, it's well he's a head on his shouldhers now,
If so be he has, for I've made a vow
Many a time, and swore it hard,
I'd have his life, and didn' regard
If I'd be hung for the pleasure it 'd be
To sarve him out for his villany.
Aw, 'deed it 'd 'a been well if he'd been took in time,
For the divil had the seed of every crime
And every wickedness deep within him!
Aw, if ever the ould sarpint brewed his venom—
But wait a bit! You'll hear before long.
And a say is a say, and a song is a song.
Now, this foolish mother she stuck to them
Through fair and foul, but special him.
I don't know did she think they were more of her own,
Flesh of her flesh, and bone of her bone,
Because the two of them come to her
When she was what you might call happier;
At laste, you know, lek enjoyin' her helf,
And havin' her husband to herself:
And little Katty was lek she'd been sent
To mind her of the different.
Lek sayin'—“Look! I come the year
The letter come!” Aw, dear—aw, dear!
Whose fault, whose fault is things like these?
Well, I suppose, they're nobody's.
And very likely it wasn' that,
But just lek brewin' in a vat
For years—the stupid and the cruel—
Till somethin' 'll stir this divil's gruel,
Lek the letter, you know, from the Docthor's ould lover,
And frothin' up, and boilin' over.
Not much lek the pool that's wrote
In the Bible there, and porches to't—
Bethesda, wasn' it? And an angel comin'
Down on a slant, and the water hummin',
And if you could get a chap to put you in,
You were healed directly of anythin'.
Aye, but Mrs. Bell, I'll swear,
There wasn' much Bethesda in her;
But rather like one of these mucky dubs,
Where there's nothin' takin' but worms and grubs,
Or maybe a leech 'll bite for a change.
Aw, some of these women is very strange!
And now it was, as you may think,
The Docthor took very hard to the dhrink.
Aw, hard enough! And fell, and fell,
The way I tould you. Poor Docthor Bell!
And agein'! You wouldn' believe the agein'.
And them two divils, lek their name was legion,
Was wuss till ever, havin' nothin' to hould them,
And goin' to destruction; and I've often told them,
But cockin' the head as proud as proud,
And as saucy, and talkin' very loud.
And her like a flint. Aw, bould most horrid,
Ye might have struck fire out of her forehead.
And when they grew up the boy was a rael
Unwholesome lookin' thing; but the gel—
Aw, 'deed she was handsome, 'deed she was!
Handsome, you know, like a vicious hoss,
And a fire in her eye that was never straight,
But sideways lek, lek goin' to bite.
And built to a dot. Aw, a splendid craythur
I tell ye, if it hadn' been for her naythur;
That was the divil itself. Aw, the tearin'
They had, them two; and the mockin' and jeerin',
And every trick. They got a gun
Betwixt them, and what do you think they done?
Climbed up our roof—aw, she could do it nimbly—
And took and fired it down the chimbly.
And the soot comin' down in sheets; and the broth
All spoilt; and mother fit to froth
At the mouth with rage, and took a hatchet.
“By gough,” says I, “it's now you'll catch it.”
But charged so quick as they were able,
And let drive again behind the gable.
“Come here,” says mother, “and I'll give you your lickin's!
Come here,” says she, “ye divil's chickens!”
“Good evenin'! Mrs. Baynes,” says they,
And laughs, and laughs, and cuts away.
And no chance with them; and took in their head
They'd hev some rael shootin', bedad.
And started one of these misty nights
To shoot the turkeys at Tommy Tite's,
That was goin' a roostin' in the trees.
Aye, they did; and one apiece,
And the other—well, I'll not be denyin',
Sure enough the other was mine.
Coaxin' hard. And “Don't be cross!”
And fond enough of a lark as it was,
Let alone a turkey; but chased at a dog,
And had to hide for hours in a bog,
Where the sallies was growin' very thick.
And out come Hal, and out come Dick;
And lights goin' flittin' around the farm,
And the three with a turkey under their arm.
But stuck to them. My gough! the cheek!
And turkey for supper for a week.
And the lies that was tould over yandher. Well!
And nobody knew but the servant gel,
That was a bit of a divil herself, I belave,
And kept it as secret as the grave.
And once they took up with some gipsies there,
Sthroullers, you know, that come to the feer —
And tents goin' fixin' on the Head—
A stinkin' lot as ever was bred—
Your reg'lar boosely, thievin' tramp—
Till the village took and mobbed the camp,
And wouldn' have them. That's the surt!
And them to take up with such abslit dirt.
Aw, if that wasn' the very high road to ruin!
And nobody noticin' what they were doin',
Nor their hours, nor nothin', except me indeed,
That was took for a time to clane and feed
The Doctor's horse, that was bad to keck,
And runnin' arrins and jobbin' lek—
And mindin' me how yandher divil
Come in the stable one night as civil
You wouldn' think what was he schamin' there,
And me just rubbin' down the meer,
And a jenny nettle, and poppin' it
Under her tail, and turned and bit
Most savage, just in the thick of the shoulder;
But, before he was a minute ouldher;
I let him have the curry hot
In the ribs, and down with him like a shot.
Took up with the gipsies, didn' I say?
Yes, by gough, and stayed away
The best part of a week, and carryin' on
Like the very deuce—aw, the divil's own fun—
Cards and dancin' there, and raggin',
And a bottle at him and shoutin' and braggin',
And her with her face all painted lek,
And her hair goin' flying about her neck,
That she wouldn' be knowed, and actual stopped
The Doctor hisself! Aw, well, that topped
Everything! aw, certain! certain!
And axed him would she tell his fortune.
You'd hardly believe! and a pipe in her cheek—
Aye, staid with them there the best part of a week;
And me that freckened, for I couldn' tell what
Would ever come of work like that—
Knowin' gipsies, and the tricks they have—
Tricks! aw, bless your soul—you'll get lave;
Tricks indeed—and went up to try
Could I coax them home; and fit to cry.
And him as drunk he could hardly stand,
And her with a face as black as tan,
And the eyes the wicked stuff they were brewin',
Like mixin' pison with the moon,
That was very clear and full that night.
Aw, it wasn' no use, though I had a fight
With a gipsy chap, and fair play showed—
Aw, there's no mistake; and took the road
Clane bet, and feelin' rather rummy,
Aw, a smart lad that! and my face in mummy—
He could work the fist, that devil, he could;
But another round—but where's the good?
And the Doctor was terrible on the spree
That time; so it's only the mother it'd be,
And her, well—of coorse! and maybe thought
They were at Bigode; but, whether or not,
No notice taken till the neighbours cryin'
Shame on such conduct, and was he blind?
And this and that, till at last the father,
Poor man, was forced, you know, to gather
His wits the best way he could, and go
And had them home immadient though.
But that's the time the men gave chase,
And druv them vagabones out of the place.
And not much better, you'll be thinkin', bedad,
For a spree like that. But the talk they had
When they come back, and the gibberish!
Aw, well really I would wish
You'd heard them—another speech, by jingo!
You couldn' understand the half of their lingo—
Not the half!
But poor little Kitty!
Bless me, the divil would have felt some pity
For that little craythur, that was natheral sweet
And good, the child! And the mother 'd see 't,
Aye plain enough, but wouldn' regard.
And all the bad things she shouldn' have heard
She had to hear, and trimblin' then—
Aw, God is good to such, my men!
And angels puts their wings around
The lek of yandher, I'll be bound;
Aw, there's some sort of music playin' in them
That's got a power to defend them
And makin' that they're hardly knowin'
The sin and wickedness that's goin'.
And the biggest rascal you ever knew
I believe 'd been freckened of them two.
And Miss Kitty 'd often be coming to me
In the stable, and puttin' her head on my knee,
Like a little lamb, and I'd coax her there
The best I could, and sthroogh the hair,
And comfort her lek, and her goin' sobbin'
And shiv'rin', and the little heart throbbin'
Against my leg. And I'd be tellin' her tales
I was makin' about little boys and gels—
Just some little bit of a story—
Quite simple—how they were took to glory
Urrov all the trouble; or about the sea,
And the fishes—just comfortin' her that way;
And the lovely flowers that was growin' down
The deep no line could ever sound;
And the mermaids, and the way they were singin';
And the little bells going ding-a-lingin'
On the Flakes. And then she'd lift the head,
And the wond'rin' baby eyes all spread
Like primroses when the air is sunny,
And draws them out. Aw, it's then the bonny
She looked, and forgettin' all the sorrar.
And then I'd be makin' cat's cradles for her,
Or the like of that. And she'd play as nice,
And laugh; and tamin' little mice.
Aw, she could do well with the lek o' that,
And terrible watchful of the cat!
Or she'd take my hand, and away she'd trot
To a little meadow the Doctor 'd got
On the river; and the questions she'd ax—
Astonishin'! Aw, fit to perplax
The Pazon; and gath'rin' yalla lilies,
And these little kittlins that's growin' on the sallies,
Like velvet that smooth—Aw, you couldn' tell
The putty, and liftin' for me to smell.
And, now and then, of a Sunday, you know,
We'd get lave at the misthriss; and off we'd go
To the Brew, for her to be with Betsy
Just for a bit—our little Petsy
We were callin' her; and sittin' beside the river,
Aw, bless ye! the loveliest thing you ever—
The pecther! Well I've got behind
A tree I have, but never mind—
Just to look, and them not knowin'.
And I tell ye the slush of tears 'd be goin'
Down my cheek, and laenin' my face
Against that tree—Aw, the lovely peace,
And the holy lek, till were we livin'
Or dead, and the lot of us in heaven,
It was hard to say—the love, the love!
Oh, the beautiful—Oh, Father above!—
Wrapped in her very heart, and she'd rock
Her to sleep, and smooth the little frock,
And put her down on the nice soft moss—
And then it was my turn, it was—
Mine—Aw, the years! but every kiss
She'd turn to see was there nothin' amiss
With the child, and her as fast as fast;
And the shaddhers dapplin' on the grass—
And the still, the still; and sweet Sunday light
All siftin' through the place, and the light
To my heart; and hope and happiness
In every breath; but God knows best
What is the best; and, as it's sayin',
He'll make it plain—He'll make it plain!
Well, at last the mistress took and died
On the sudden; and the Pazon tried
What could he do with the Doctor, for all,
And very willin' for him to call—
And talkin' and reasonin' a dale—
Aw, he was good company was Pazon Gale.
And sober enough, and much respec'
For the Pazon, and humble and quiet lek.
But afore they were done, he'd work it, you know
Till the Pazon was terrible put to,
And couldn' manage the Doctor, however,
For bless ye, ye see, the man was clever;
Aw, it's clever shockin' was the man;
And the Pazon'd rather for him to go on,
And wonderful talk, and glad to listen—
He said it was mortal interestin',
The Pazon said; and that tender-hearted,
And come to convert; but liker converted.
Not the drink! chut! not the drink;
But the Doctor had notions you couldn' think,
And strange, and off the common rather,
And beat the Pazon altogether.
But for all the proud and the clever as well,
He sent that very night for Fell—
Ruchie, you know—the ould man I tould ye;
Aw, he did, sent for him, behould ye!
And prayer at the two, and left him prayin—
Anyway that's what the people was sayin':
And lek enough, for the head'll be high,
And axin' for and axin' why;
But the heart'll be sad, and longin' for grace,
Or anythin' that'll give it aise—
Lek you'll see a mountain with the bare bould rock
Goin' up to meet the tempest's shock,
And the night is on its head lek a crown;
And the sky all frost; but lower down
He's got the kerns, and he's got the firs,
And the veins that's in his big heart stirs
With the strength of streams, and the soft sweet air—
Well, that was like the Doctor's prayer.
I don't know did it last till Monday,
But they got him to church on the mournin' Sunday
Very nice, and the childher too;
And the best of mournin', and all of it new;
And if ever there was a black snowdrop in,
That's what Miss Katty was favourin' —
Nice little things peepin' out of the grass—
But the other two was as bould as brass,
And cockin' the nose, and tossin' the book,
Till the Pazon himself begun to look,
And his vice all trimblin', and his eyes all wet;
And then they tried to behave a bit.
Well, then, the Doctor got terrible bad,
And the life yandher little Katty had,
And growin', you know, for they will, aye, aye!
But very awkward lek, and shy.
And the Doctor says to me one day,
He says (we were fishin' out in the bay),
“Tom! you're a dacent sort of a chap—
Would you mind givin' a look if yandher sthrap
Of a sarvint is puttin' too much upon
Little Katty,” he said; and then he begun—
And the brother and the sister, too;
And the knockin' about and the black and the blue
With the thumpin's at them. And would I, then?
So I said, Yes, and he might depend.
Never fear! So it's a bite he had,
And hauled. And nothing more was said.
So many a time when the tide'd be flowin'
Up to the boat, I'd be takin' and goin'
In on the back-kitchen at them there,
And never the one of them down the stair
But little Katty; and at it hard,
And scrubbin' and scourin' out the yard.
Aw, scrubbin' to the very scraper,
And the little knees just wore to paper.
Or down in the cendhars, and the little back
Just broke at her, and as black as black.
And the bellows in bits, and puvvin' and puvvin'
With the little cheeks. Aw, you couldn' help lovin'
The boghee veg. And never a string
Tied in her frock—the little thing—
Behind, you know. And the little stays
And all to that; and the little ways,
And rubbin' her eyes, the full of sleep.
And the shamed; and “Dear! I'm like a sweep!”
Aw, the neglected. Aw, scand'lous, though!
Scandalous! And me turnin' to
To light the fire; and gettin' some sticks
Out of the stable. And her to fix
The tay. And me with a besom sweepin'
Fuss-rate. And the trouss of a sarvint creepin'
Down, like a cat; and the imp'rint! Aye!
And the sauce! And laughin' fit to die.
And little Katty, turn'd to the shelf,
And pinched but laughin' a bit herself,
The foolish I'd look, but maenin' well!
Aw, she was a darlin little thing, was Katty Bell.
And the lot of them snorin' overhead
Like bulls of Bashan, and their tay in bed!—
Took to them, you know. And'd roor
That sudden, and hammerin' on the floor.
And Quick—quick—quick! And catchin' up
And flyin'. And “Give us yandher cup!”
The dirts! But when they were satisfied—
Of coorse dependin' on the tide,
And no hurry, you know—I'd be takin' a smook,
And little Miss Katty'd be havin' a book
And readin' to me. Aw, beautiful readin'!
Beautiful! And never needin'
To do the big spells. And eyein' me
O' one side, now and then, to see
Was I listenin'. And that big slut
Hookin' herself, and bitendin' not—
The sarvint, you know. And the dirty mob
Of a cap that was at her—aw, a reg'lar slob!
Well, that's the way she got that free
And trustful lek, you know, with me,
That there wasn' no trouble at her whatever
But Tom must know. “Aw, Tom is clever,”
She'd say. And 'deed I was, surprisin'—
I was though: and mortal for advisin'.
And now I'll tell you the way it was,
And what them divils came to at last.
You see, this Willy Bell was bad
To the very backbone; and the schoolin' he had
Done him no good, nor like to do—
Just a quarter, or maybe two,
At the Cullige there; and sthroullin' about
All hours, and goin' a turnin' out
At the masther, that wouldn' have the lek;
And no raison he would, for you couldn' expec'.
That was the schoolin'; but nathral sharp
And clever. And only for the warp
Of the divil that was in the very stuff of him,
They'd have made a handy man enough of him.
But the dirty turn-out; and must try and look big,
And up and got the Bigode's ould gig,
And a coult that had hardly a shoe to his foot,
And the Docthor's mare, and to they were put
The way two hosses 'd be goin' a yockin'
To a cart, and smackin' the whip, and cockin'
The hat o' one side; and her with a thing
Like a bugle, and blowin' astonishin'!
And the pair like brass; and the fuss-rate it 'd be
To go down to the Cullige, and let them see!
And started, I tell ye, from the Lhen,
And into the hedge and out again,
And scorin' all the road like a herrin',
Till they come to the Ballabeg; and gerrin'
Locked with the Port-le-Moirey car.
Aw, then the cussin' and the war!
And capsizin' in the ditch; and—chat!
There'd be pounds there—depend on that!
And the little 'stasha under the nose,
And, my gough! the tasty about the clothes,
And gettin' them from Douglas—aye!
Aw, wouldn' be bet. Aw, as high as high!
Just tip-top; and a weskit there
Like these divils of play-acthors you'll see at a fair—
All colours, I tell ye! Aw, the chap had notions,
'Deed he had; and the talk, and the motions,
And the ring on the finger—aw, complate!
The buck all over—fuss-rate! fuss-rate!
And often over in Dhoolish: and snakin'
About the Barracks, and goin' a takin'
In at the officers, and lar him
Drink hisself blind, and laughin' arrim —
Just for a fool; and not satisfied,
But'd be more till that—aw, the divil's pride!
And who he was, and who he knew,
And what he'd done, and what he could do,
And hintin', and allis stand by his fren',
And the sthrappin' gels there was at the Lhen;
And intarmined, you know, he'd make them confess
He was wicked enough whatever he was.
So one of them divils come over to see,
Just for a bit o'curosity,
It's lek; and, for all the capers he had,
I believe the lad was a dacent lad.
But they nailed him—aye! Aw, they worked him well—
He was the boy that could do it, was Willy Bell.
And terrible rich, and the money flyin',
And in at the Bull, and all enjoyin'
Theirselves though, grand; and him with the puss
Standin' trate for the lot of us.
And Miss Mary soon got agate of him
With her gipsy tricks. Aw, well she could trim
The bait; and I tould ye, didn' I?
The beauty she was; aw, ye couldn' deny—
But, aw dear, such beauty! where do they gerrit?
Lek it would be an evil sperrit
Had stole a body that was goin' a makin'
For a pious pessin, and so it'll be takin'
All the sweet and all the gud
Urrov things, and soakin' them into the blood,
And growin' and lookin' lovely, but still
It come from hell, and it'll go to hell—
But maybe not—aw, lave it alone!
It's lek the divil knows his own;
And anyway we hav'n' got no call,
For God Hisself is workin' all.
And there's odds of beauty, and for all the brazen,
You couldn' help it—aw, amazin'!
For she'd keep the eyes upon you, ye know,
And the deep light gatherin' there as slow,
Like tricklin' into a bowl, till she'd fill it
Full to the brim, and then she'd spill it
Right in your face. Aw, ye'd need to be stones,
For she'd melt the marrow in your bones—
The divil! Aw, many's the time she's made me
Trimble all over—lek she'd flayed me,
With the fire of her look—aye! aye! my men,
And me, that hated her like sin!
But this young Captain—well, of coorse!
And the Doctor gettin' worse and worse
Them times, and up to Bigode for the hay
Lek he was used; and the best of a month away—
And terrible talk, and every wheer!
And up the gill, and did ye see her?
And bless my soul! and bad work! What?
And where would it end? And this, and that,
And desp'rate work in the Doctor's house,
And carryin' on, till this little mouse
Of a Katty was freckened altogether,
And come to me, and not a bad job either—
The boghee veg! and the little bress
Like choked—aw, terrible distress
At the child—and would I come up? aw, do!
And oh, if I knew! Oh, if I knew!
And oh, would I come up to-night?
And—it isn' right, it isn' right!
“No, it isn'!” I says. Aw, the red
She got and the shamed, and the little hands spread
Against her face, and turns the quick,
And the sobs goin' ruxin' up her back!
Think of the shame! aw, the beautiful shame!
Aw, dear! there should be another name
For the lek. When an angel'll be flying past
The gate of hell, you could fancy a blast
Of the brimstone—eh! and him shakin' his feathers—
'Deed they've got to be out in all weathers,
Them angels, aye! and seein' hapes
Of sin. And I wouldn' trust but they scrapes
Their feet middlin' careful at the door,
Comin' in and steppin' on the floor
Very dainty, for not to be silin'
The lovely polished gool, and smilin';
And—glory, glory to the Lamb!
Aw, when I think of that the happy I am!
Well, well, let's hope—and the sea all glass—
But the shamed she was! the shamed she was!
The putty shamed; aw dear, the sweet,
In a little thing. Aw, I love to see't.
I was guttin' our herrin's that time, and I talked
A dale of comfortin' things, and calked
The seams of the little bustin' heart
The best I could. And I'd take her part,
And “Look here!” I said, and I showed her my knife;
“Look here! I'll have that captain's life
This very everin',” I said; “and what's more,
By gough! it should ha' been done afore”—
Just comfortin' lek, the way she'd see
The friend she had. “No, no!” said she,
And the white as death. “Oh, make him promise!
Oh, Mrs. Baynes!” “Ger out there, Thomas!”
Says mawther. And well to keep clear of a quarrel,
And rammin' the herrin's into the barrel,
And sniffin' greatly, but looked over her shoulder
At little Katty, and sniffin' loudher,
But wouldn' let on for any sake,
But in and got a botter cake,
The thick with sugar, and sthrooghed the head,
And “Go home now! millish! Go home!” she said.
And I went with her as far as the gaery;
And then she axed me to speak to Mary.
And the sense she had, and her so small;
And the way she knew nothin', and the way she knew all!
And—“Is she—is she a wicked gel?”
And—“'Deed, Miss Katty, I cannot tell,”
Says I; “but lookin' like it rather.”
And how would it do to tell the father?
And no!—aw, no! And grippin' my hand,
And beseechin' lek; and who was her fran'
But me; and the good I was, and the nice,
And the big and the strong, and the ould and the wise.
Aw, dear! “Well, well!” I said; “all right!”
And up to the house that very night;
And not in much notion what to say,
But felt like a fool, though, anyway.
So I in on the back, and I axed the gel
Was Miss Mary in; and—“Will I do as well?”
Says this trouss, and cockin' the cap, and tossin'
The head o' one side, and semp'rin', and saucin'.
“Hardly,” says I. “Can I see her?” I says;
“I want to spake to her, if you plaise.”
“Indeed!” says she; “you're very high!”
And—“Spakin' is spakin'!” “Go and tell her,” says I,
“For all—and look sharp!” Aw, by gough! she went.
You see I was never givin' no encouragement
To the lek—no, no! A dirty thing!
Her to buck up to me, by jing!
Well, she soon came back; and “Go in!” says she,
“And I'd rather it'd be you till me.”
So I into the parlour; and there she was—
The handsome! But “all flesh is grass,”
It's sayin'. But the beauty and the craft
Of the craythur! and just the tail of a laugh
Left curled on her mouth; and never lifted
Her eyes from the book, nor never shifted;
But aisy to see little Katty had tould them
I was come up o' purpose to scould them.
And—“Good everin',” says I, “Miss Bell”;
But rather hesitin'. “Aren't ye well?”
Says she. “A cowld, it's lek,” she says;
And “ye seem rather shaky”; and the key of the chess
Was away with the Doctor, and the eyes as straight
On the book, but just a slit o' light—
A kink; and the sparklin' silver devil
Runnin' along it like the bead in a level
You'll see at these masons. “Look out,” says I
To myself, “Tom Baynes! Stand by! stand by!
It's comin',” says I—“it's fight she manes!
Batten down your hatches, Misther Thomas Baynes!”
And I drew a long breath, and I said, “Miss Mary!
I'm sorry now; I'm sorry very”—
And the tight in the throat. “But it's lek it's no use,”
I said; and “I must, and I hope you'll 'scuse—
And it's makin' very free,” I said;
“But I'm bothered shockin' in my head,
And all the talk—” “If I had the keys,”
Says she. “Aw, Miss Mary! if you plaise,
Will you listen to me?” I says—“will you listen?
It isn' my stomach!—no, it isn',”
I says. “No, no!—it's my heart that's in.”
“Love!” she says; “oh, that's differin'.
How interestin'!” she says; and “Come!
Tell me all about it, Tom!
Your heart,” she says, “poor Tom!—your heart!”
Then all of a sudden she gave a start,
And “It isn' me! Oh, Tom! hush, hush!”
And her eyes flew round at me in a rush
Of fire. “Miss Mary! Miss Mary!”—I strove
To get a word, you know. But—“Love!
Love, is it, Tom? And your heart, poor lad,
Is bleedin'!—is it, Tom?” she said,
And the sigh! “Oh, God in heaven!” I shouted,
“Miss Mary!” and the red lip pouted,
And the foot went tappin'; and—“Well,” says she,
“You're a handsome fellow; but Betsy Lee!
Betsy, Tom! Oh, Tom! for shame!”
Aw, her eyes was like the livin' flame!
And the smile!—aw, the divil's smile was warpin'
Like a leech on her lips. My gough! the sarpin'!
The sarpin'!—and me with the ribs just stove
With houldin' my heart, the way it hove
Against them. Aw, I couldn' have stood much more;
And if I'd struck her to the floor,—
Struck her dead—struck her dead,—
It'd been better for herself it had,
And a wonder I didn'; but I hoult very strong,
And I said, “Miss Mary, it's very wrong
The way you're actin'.” I said, “Try, try!
To speak to me like a lady,” says I,
“Like a lady,” I says, “aw, do! aw, do!
You know what I mean. It is for you,
And for all my heart is sore this night,”
I said. “Aw, dear! the weight! the weight
Of trouble that's fell upon ye all,”
I said, “that's fell, and goin' to fall.
Aw, Miss Mary!” I said, “be nice!
Be studdy,” I said; “aw, take advice,
And give yandher captain a clout on the head!
He's after no good—not him!” I said;
And wouldn' she be happier far
If she was keeping more respectablar?
And wasn' it God that gave her the beauty
And the figgar? And wouldn' it be her duty
To try to be sweet, and pure, and good
The way the Lord was intendin' she should?
Aw, try; and all would be for the best,
“And everybody'll love you,” I says.
And I kep' the eye upon her still—
The blue on the black! Aw, aisy, Bill!
The cowld on the hot, if you like; and the hand
Went up to the head like a shootin' pain—
“Try!” I said, but very low,
Just like whisperin', you know—
Aw, then she was done, and only raison;
And her face in her hands, and her hands like a bason
For the full of tears that couldn' help splashin'
Through her fingers like a pessin washin';
And the catch on her breath; aw, it's then the Lord
Was strivin' with her very hard.
But I heard a foot goin' on the stair,
And I turned very quick, and who should be there
But Willie? We looked at one another
For the best of a minute; aw, studdy, rather,
Studdy; but he couldn' hold on,
And the eye fell slant. And then he begun
And who the this, and who the that!
And what in the world was she sniv'lin' at?
And “What have you been talkin' about,
Tom Baynes?” he says. And “Just get out!”
He says, “get out of here!” he says.
My gough, the tinglin' in my fist!
“Now, I'll be plain with you, Willy Bell,”
I says, “I'll be plain; you know right well
What was I talkin' about, for you were standin'
The whole of the time upon the landin'.
Now, then,” I says, “you're a gentleman,
And I'm— However, that's your plan—
Listenin', is it? You snake! And you heard
All that was sayin'—aye, every word!”
Aw, he turned his back, and he goes to the sisther,
And says he, “look up,” and he took and kissed her.
“Judas!” I shouted, “Judas! traitor!
Devil!” I said, “let go the craythur!
The Lord is with her.” “Oh, no doubt,”
Says he, “but we know what we're about.”
And I looked, and she just give one long shiver,
And the face was as hard and as wicked as ever.
“Help, help! my God,” I cried, “help now!
She's lost! she's lost!” “Come! blast this row!”
Says he. Aw, I made a step, and I put
My face into his, and fut to fut,
And “Devil! Devil! Double die
Of a devil! I can see it in your eye!
I know it! I know it!” “What?” he said.
“What, indeed! What, indeed!
Will I kill ye now?” I says. Aw, he shook
Very bad. And I took and stuck
My fist in his handkecher, and I gave
Just one good twiss. “Come, lave then! lave,
Lave go!” he says, and the teeth goin' chatterin'.
“By gough,” I says, “you're a beautiful patterin
Of a gentleman.” And her as quite
All the time; but the soft, good light
Of God was gone out of her, and starin'
Lek a kind of stupid, the way its appearin'
With people that's drunk that sleepy stuff—
Laudanum, is it? Lek enough:
But didn' offer to help him at all,
And the divil pinned against the wall;
And puffin' and cussin' what would he do.
“Come out!” says I. “No, I won't, for you!”
Says he. “You coward,” I says, and I ground
My knuckles in his windpipe, and down
He went like a sack of potatoes though!
“You're a murderer!” she said. “No, no!”
Says I; “there's twice too much life in him yet.”
Aw, you might as well ha' talked to a idiot
As to her, the way she was then. So I went,
For I was intarmint to be off immadient
To the Bigode to see was the Docthor in trim
To be fit to come down and spake to them.
And afore I got to the end of the street
I heard the click of a horse's feet,
And a Douglas car. And “Wuss and wuss!”
Thinks I. “And now it's who'll be fuss!”
And I ran like the mischief. And there he was
The poor old Docthor, and a staemin' glass,
And the one tum over the other, twiddlin',
You know. And middlin' sober—middlin'.
And—For all the sakes to come at once,
Or lek enough we'd lose the chance—
And the work that was in. And “Docthor come!”
“Stop,” he says, “till I finish this rum”;
And suckin' it sweet, aw, the last grain of shugger.
And then this stupid ould hugger-mugger
Of a Kelly, the grandfather, you know,
What would hould but he must go?
And huntin' for his stick, and wrappin'
His stupid ould neck. And—What might happen,
And—The Lord over all. And—Wouldn' it be well
To begin with prayer? “Eh, Docthor Bell?”
“No,” I said, “Mr. Kelly,” I says,
“There isn' no time for this foolishness.”
“You scandalous rapprerbate,” says he,
“For shame!” he says. And down on the knee,
And by gough he gave tongue that all the glen
Might have heard him. “All right! Amen, Amen!”
Says I. And glad they warn' in liquor,
But half out of my senses they wouldn' come quicker.
And the hummin' and hemmin'; and the death of cowld,
And “Be careful, Kelly!” and “Bless my soul!”
And, “What's become of yandher stick?”
Aw, enough to make you sick.
But off at last; and slow, though, very,
And groanin' and prayin' like ould Harry!
And “Yes, Docthor Bell,” and “No, Docthor Bell,”
And “It's lek it's better to go, Docthor Bell?”
And “Are ye there?” and “Wait now, wait!”
And “It's very coorse,” and “I'm all in a heat”;
And me like disthracted. And, was I suttin?
And stoppin' and strugglin' with a button—
And “D---it! Mr. Kelly,” I says,
“It's too bad altogether, it is.”
“O,” he says, “young man, I see!
I'll have a little talk with you,” says he.
“What is it sayin',” he says, “in John?”
“Good Lord! Mr. Kelly! come on! come on!
Come on!” I says; so he come; but sighin'
Very bad, and lek to plyin'
A text to hisself. And got them down
To the Lhen at last; and people round
The door o' the Bull, and 'cited rather,
And nudgin' when they saw the father;
And over to the house, and there—
Of coorse! of coorse! Aw, never fear!
Gone though! and no use to be frettin';
And Pazon Gale in the parlour sittin'
As patient; but thinkin' very deep,
And little Katty fast asleep
Before the fire, or was a fire,
But this beautiful servant was off to enjoy her
Talk with the neighbours; and just a rakin'
Of dust in the bars. Aw dear, the forsaken!
The miserable! the miserable!
And the Pazon with his elber on the table—
The Pazon, aye; for when the child
Seen their actin', she run like wild
Up to the Church, that nothin' couldn' stop her;
And was she too little to reach the rapper,
Or couldn' work it, the Pazon was sayin',
She put her face to the window pane,
The Pazon said, like a little ghose,
He said; and the flat of her little nose
Just like a peep-show, he said it was,
Don't you know? a bit of glass
And flowers goin' squeezin' under it;
Eh? and a little mossel of spit,
And give me a pin
To stick in my chin—
What? of coorse! of coorse! you know—
And only off with my shoes and jacket,
For I was intarmined to see would they be at the packet.
And gave the ould woman slip fuss-rate,
And never touched a mossel o' mate,
And got to Douglas middlin' arly.
Aw, by gough! but they bet me farly,
For where must they be off to all the while
But Ramsey, and sailed with the Mona's Isle?
The Mona's Isle!—I wish she'd ha' sunk!
I was just that mad that I went and got drunk,
And I couldn' tell ye when I got home—
But I saw yandher driver, and I gave it to 'm—
As innocent there upon the Cross!
Aw, I had to do it, the mad I was.
So that was Misther Willy Bell
That sould his sisther. Still!—keep still!
Sould her! Didn' I see the notes?
Didn' me and Tommy Oates
See him crispin' them in his fingers
At Callow's? Didn' we, by jingers?
And didn' I tell him he had his wages,
And he'd burn for it, through all the ages
Of hell, I said, and the dirty sniggle
On his face—aye, just like a worm'll wriggle
Under your calker; and didn' we take them
Urrov his hand, and didn' we cake them
Together, by gough! and soak the whole o' them
In a pint-jough there, and make him swallow them?
Aye, did we! and a goodish few
Made it up to kill him, too,
And tould it wasn' safe at the Lhen;
And cut, and never come back again.
No, no!—by gough! he's not such a fool,
And he's for a bully now in Liverpool.
And did this Mary ever come back?
Yes, she did. She tried that tack,
Maybe about a two years after;
But of coorse this fellow had took and left her
Long afore that. She came about
Of a summer's everin'; and the Docthor out,
And Katty with him, and the new sarvint they had
Come runnin' down the shore, and she said
The free she was, and the condescandin',
And the lovely drest, and there was no depandin'
To the talk with people. “Aisy, ess!”
Says an ould fisherman there. “We know what she is;
And, by gough!” he says, “she'll pack her traps
This very night!” and calls the chaps,
And gets a cart, and away with them though,
And me a follerin' rather slow,
And thinkin' a dale; for, for all the sinner
She was, the door shouldn' be shut agin her;
It shouldn', I tell ye—it shouldn' be,
If she's anyways took in her conscience, ye see—
Aw, no!—and done with her wickedness,
And longin', longin', longin' for rest.
“God help the lek!” thinks I; and the cart
Goin' rattlin' on. “Will I take her part?”
Says I to myself. “Well, well! I'll wait”;
And the cart goin' stoppin' at the gate,
And “Come urrov that!” says Bobby Brew;
“Come urrov that!” says all the crew;
“Come urrov that!—come urrov that, will ye?”
And says Bobby, “We're not goin' to kill ye;
But we know very well how your bread is arnin' —
So you'll off by the packet to-morrow mornin'.
Now, come!” says Bobby—“come, and make haste!”
So she come—she come! My God! the face!
Just a graven image cut out of stone—
The tight and the glazed; you'd hardly ha' known
Was it a livin' woman you'd got,
Or some figgerhead for the divil's yacht!
And goin' a heisin' at them there,
Straight like a coffin upon a bier,
And a cross-board at them, and a wisp o' straw;
God bless ye! the lek you never saw!
And givin' in, and noways vi'lent,
And because she was silent, they were all of them silent;
Aw, you might ha' heard a pin—
For all the world like a buryin',
But the pitiful! the pitiful!
And along the street, and past the Bull;
And, “Aw!” I said—“aw, give her a chance!
Aw, just this once!—aw, just this once!
And wait for the Docthor! aw, do! aw, do!
Aw, Masther Brew!—aw, Masther Brew!
Can't there be no mercy?” I said;
But ould Bauvy only shook his head,
And over the shore; and then the women
Come out, and one by the name o' Shimmin
Up with a clew of goss to strek her,
And others tryin' to draw the kecker;
But some was shoutin', “Where are ye goin'?”
And—“Aw, the poor thing!” and “Lave her alone!”
And just when we come agin the well,
Who was there but ould Ruchie Fell?
And—“Come, then, Ruchie! give her a prayer!”
And the innocent ould soul that was there
Stuck to at once, and prayed away
Till we got to the other side of the bay,
And keepin' up, and peggin' along
By the side of the cart, and prayin' strong,
And the two hands clasped before him like this;
And at last he took and gave out a vess
Of the “Buryin' Psalm,” and middlin' right,
But then they hushed him for th' be quite,
And tould him he hadn' got the tune,
And left him standin' in the moon.
But Mary Bell! oh, Mary Bell!
What she was thinkin', who can tell?
Sittin' there as firm and straight
As a crowbar; and all the lovely light
Shinin' off her like a block—
Lek you'll see it shinin' off a rock.
If it wasn' the sittin', you couldn' have tould
Was she dead or alive. And—“Is there a sowl
At her, is there?—or a body just?”
Thinks I to myself. Aw, dust to dust.
Bless ye! we might ha' been agate of a biler
On the Foxdale road —when, behold ye! ould Smiler,
The Pazon's horse, and the Pazon's trap,
And the Pazon himself! And—“Stop, men! stop!”
We were about the Ballayonna, you know,
When we met him, Ned, and turnin' slow
On the bridge that's there. “What's at ye at all?”
Says the Pazon, backin' agin the wall;
And—“Hullo!” he says, “Thomas! is that you?
Aw, dear!” he says, “and Robert Brew!”
And what were we afther? and we gave him a start,
And who was that we had in the cart?
So they tould him; and the Pazon tried
Hard, but they wouldn' be satisfied.
“Let her see her father!” he says;
And the wrong, he said, and the wickedness
They were doin', he said, it was awful! awful!
“And more till that—it isn' lawful.”
“We'll chance the law,” says the fellows then;
But, by gough! the Pazon was at them again.
And who were they to judge the why
The gel come home? lek enough to die,
Says the Pazon. Says Brew, “She's not the surt!
And I tell you, Pazon, we'll have no such dirt
At the Lhen,” says Brew; “so there now—there!”
Aw, he was the chap to spake. “You were allis severe
And hard, Robert Brew! But listen to me!
I've nussed this child upon my knee;
I've christened her in the church,” he says;
“And now—and now—she's come to this!”
And, “Oh, our Father in heaven!” says he,
“Look down on her in her misery;
And melt, oh, melt! these hearts of stone!”
And, “Havn' you childher of your own?”
He says to the chaps. And there wasn' a word
For a minute maybe, and all that was heard
Was the river, cryin' down the gill,
And houldin' their breaths—aw, very still.
Then says the Pazon, “Mary Bell,
Have you come home to be a good gel?
In God's name, Mary! in God's name!
Is that, is that the for ye came!
Answer!” he said; but she wouldn' spake.
Then says Bauvy, “I know the sake
She come well enough: it was for the little sister—
Little Katty—to try could she get and 'list her
In the same sort of work.” “That's it! that's it!”
Says the others; “little Katty—to get
Little Katty!” they says. “Little Katty—aye!”
And, “Stick to it, Bauvy!—that's the why!”
And Miss Katty was the darlin' of the shore,
And she'd been knocked about enough before—
And they wouldn' have it, they said, and'd rather
See her in her grave! and the father
Was a very nice man, but he wasn' able
To take care o' the child; and gettin' feeble,
They said, with the drink, and far too soft;
And it was Katty—Katty they were thinkin' of—
Little Katty! Aw, then the head
Come down at last. “I'll go!” she said—
Yes, but sulky-lek, you know;
“Drive on the cart!—I'll go! I'll go!”
Then the Pazon gave a terrible sigh,
And he says, “The Lord is always nigh!
I'll go with her myself, I will!”
And out of the gig, and on to the till,
And into the cart. And, “Thomas, good lad!
Take care of the gig!” And—the bad!—the bad!
And a mortal trimblin' in his vice,
And sittin' beside her as nice as nice.
So on we druv, with the cart in front,
And the gig behind, and just a grunt
Now and then at Bauvy; but me that beat
I was nearly fallin' off the seat—
And the Pazon talkin' very low,
But what he was talkin' we'll never know;
But it's lek to repent, and the aisy yoke—
The way they're talkin', and right to talk—
Pazons—yes!
So that's the way
We got her down on Douglas Quay;
And we waited till the packet started;
And the hobblers there was terr'ble divarted
With the Pazon! And, What a stunnin' old limb!
They were sayin'; and a gel with him!
Aw, these Douglas hobblers is shockin' rough,
Though there's some of them dacent chaps enough,
But free o' the tongue, aw, 'deed they are,
And ready for any sort of war.
But the Pazon didn' mind them, no he didn',
Just like an ould angel, the way he was spreadin'
The peace around him, lek shook from wings
Round and round and round in rings—
The holy, the holy, and the true!
Aw, the beautiful and the lovely too!
Aw, bless him! bless him! He'll wear the crown,
Will Pazon Gale! And up and down,
Up and down on yandher pier,
And that stubborn thing that was at him there,
Whatever he could do or say—
But she broke with the breakin' of the day—
Broke when the day broke! Well, raelly now
Them's the only words—I don't know how—
Was it the Prince of Darkness was put to flight,
For he couldn' stand the sting of the light;
Or was the red that ript the East
Like a finger pointin' to the place
Where she had to go? Or did God look out
From the pillar of fire, lek when He was about
Yandher Pharaoh, and all his host
That come tearin' there along the coast,
And braggin' that Moses couldn' help but laugh,
Chariots! had they? and the wheels comin' off!
Aye, but, however, she sobbed a dale,
But what she said to Pazon Gale
Was never known; but you could see like a shot
The Pazon was aisier after that
For her to go. I can't tell if she hadn'
A godly sorra—for tears 'll be sheddin'
Very bad, and even prayin',
But a godly sorra, the Bible is sayin'—
Of course, and—lek never to do it again—
Do ye see the thing? We'll drop it then.
And so she was put aboard at last,
And ould Bauvy says—“Will I make her fast
To anything?” But the Pazon went
To ould Captain Craine, bein' well acquent,
And—would he give an eye to this young pessin?
And—the 'spectable, and very distressin'—
“All right!” says the Captain, but middlin' gruff,
“All right!”. “And is it goin' to be rough?”
“No!” he says; and “Now for the shore!”
And turns his back. I belave he knew her.
Well, that's all I've got about Mary
And home with the Pazon, and terrible weary
The two of us till the Pazon heard
A lark that was singin' very high,
And all like quiverin' with the joy—
Then said the Pazon—“You'd hardly belave
There was sin in the world, to hear that stave—
Sing on, my bird! sing on!” he says,
“Your song of love and happiness!
Sing on, brave bird!” and the ould head dips,
And I seen the prayer on his lips—
Aye—but didn' spake again
At all. And so we come to the Lhen.
Now, I don't know azackly the years it would be,
But it was once I was home for a while, you see,
With the ould woman, bein' in two minds
Would I stick altogether to the lines,
And give up the sea; and I'd had my sup
Of troubles, you know, but mortal took up
With little Simmy, that was growin' grand—
Eh, Simmy! Are ye asleep, my man?
Look at him! rolled up like a ball!
Ha! pretendin'! Aisy all!
Well, I think it was a everin' in May,
Or June, a yacht come into the bay,
A terrible beauty, schooner rig,
Fore and aft, you know; and big
Tremenjus—two hundred register
At laste, I'm thinkin'; and they anchored her
Inside of the Carrick. And a boat come in,
And a sarvint, and orders at him to send
A Docthor aboard, if so be there was one
At the Village, and then for him to go on
To Douglas, and get them Docthors too—
Idikkilis! as if Bell wouldn' do!
But that's the way! and a gig at the Bull,
And yoked in a crack, aw, a gig to the full—
Aw, it's Callow's could do it, and off like a shot,
And then, ye see, Docthor Bell was got;
And the boat that come had to stay behind
For stores, and so he went in mine.
The sun was settin' when we fetched,
And there was a lady lyin' stretched
On a bed on the deck, for she wouldn' stay
Below as long as it was day.
So that's the raison they satisfied her.
And the son and the husband standin' beside her,
And the awnin' furled, and the last bit of light
Shinin' full on her face—Aw, the white! the white!
And “Here's the Docthor!” and makin' room,
And the young man leaned his head on the boom;
But the old man took the Docthor's hand,
And led him to her, you understand—
But when she seen him she gave a cry,
And, “Oh, you're come to see me die!
Oh, Edward! oh—perhaps it's as well—
Oh, Edward Bell! Oh, Edward Bell!”
And he fell on his knees, and he bowed his head,
“Harriet! Harriet!” he said;
But the Lady Harriet was dead.
Yes! it was her. You knew it was comin'?
Aw, the very woman! the very woman!
For when the Docthor wrote to her
To say he was married, she didn' care
For nothin' at all, but only to go
Somewhere out of the way, you know—
Lek a craythur that's goin' a runnin' over
'll creep in the hedge to try and recover—
Aye, but a taste of pride with it all,
Aw, pride no doubt! and natheral!
For what had she done but axed a man
Would he marry her, and the fella ran—
Well, not azackly that, but still—
Aw, she was feelin' it terrible.
And went and took a little house
In the counthry, and just a couple of cows
And a little land, and a lady's maid
She was used of lek, that could make her bed
And that, and this man they were callin' James,
You'll mind, that was tellin' me all the games.
Wasn' it him that came ashore
In the boat to send the Docthor to her?
And off without a bite or a sup
To get the Douglas Docthors up.
Wasn' he tellin' me over our tay—
We'd been whitin' fishing in the bay
That ev'rin'—aw, a dacent chap,
And the fond of the whitin's he couldn' stop
One after another—and aw, the delaycious!
And him and me was very gracious.
Well, she come to live in this little place,
But she couldn' get a mossel of peace;
For of coorse the rich she was and the beauty,
There was hundreds comin' to pay their duty,
Lek makin' application, lek sportin'
Their figgers afore her. I doubt it's coortin'
It'd get with us, but the quality
Must have a differin' name, ye see.
So I believe at last she was fairly fo'ced
To take a husband. And like a ghost,
They said, the day she was married. Aye!
But a rael good man, and tervil high;
And a splandid scholar, you'll be sure,
And kind, and givin' a dale to the poor;
And wise and careful all the same—
Lord Brockley they were callin' him.
And she never had no child but the one—
A boy, you know, and reared at them grand;
But the mother took very much to failin',
So the docthors thought a little sailin'
Would do her good. So every year
They were havin' a trip in the Vivandeer,
They were callin' her. And sixteen hands
All tould, and sparin' no expense.
Aw, a splandid vessel, splandid, though!
And that fitted up, you'd hardly know
Were you standin' in a ship or a shop.
And stewards there—aw, just tip-top;
And the paintin' and the gool—you never!
And the lookin' glasses; but, however—
So it seems this time they'd been over to Dublin,
And rather rough, and the sickness troublin'
The lady bad. And bound to shake her
Roundin' the Calf. And waeker and waeker,
Till at last they got freckened, and had to give in,
And come to an anchor at the Lhen.
So that's the way, the very fit.
And wasn' it nice now? Wasn' it?
And her ould sweetheart, and all! Just so!
Aw, beautiful! Aw, lovely, though!
And the wonderful for him to be nigh,
Lek it'd be a pleasure for her to die.
Yes, yes! you're right! Aw, 'deed, for sure!
The woman was dyin' happy thallure.
And coffined there at Masther Cowle—
Rosewood—rosewood! Bless your soul
Satin linin', satin trimmin',
Just like a pianna, I heard some women.
And put aboard the Douglas boat,
And Masther Cowle himself attendin' to 't.
And the proudest day of his life, I'll bet.
Aw, poor Lady Harriet!
Now afore she was married she tould the Lord
About the Doctor, every word.
And hard to do it's lek it 'd be,
But “Bless ye! What's the odds?” says he.
Aw, thrumps the both, and 'd out and spake;
Aw, the rael breed, and no mistake.
So this Lord Brockley seen at once
What was up, and capital friends—
Capital! Chut! The man had sense.
There was a sayin' of his the people had
When the two was ither side of the dead.
Then says this Brocolo—“Poor dove!
I had her truth, and you had her love.”
But the young chap never knew nothin' at all
Till now, and it sunk in his heart like a ball
In the teak. And the pecther in him he'd drew
Of his mother—ever since he knew—
Shivered. And had to put it together
The best he could; but differin' rather.
Aw, differin'. And the very next day
He took to the mountain straight away.
I don't know did he think some angel would stand
On the cairn with the pecther in his hand
For him to copy; but there's no accountin'—
There's queer things seein' on the mountain—
Aw, queer enough. And the air, you know,
That keen; and no accountin' though.
But I know a bird that 'll whistle ye down
From any mountain, I'll be bound.
A little bird. A hen or a cock?
No matter. “Come down from yandher rock!
Come down!” it's sayin'. And, by gum,
When that chap pipes, you'll have to come.
Aye, will ye. Aw, it's thrue, it's thrue!
Do I mean little Katty? Of coorse I do.
Little? No! But a woman grown,
And a joy for your heart to think upon.
For whenever she was gettin' fair play,
With them two divils goin' away,
She took a body, and she took a chin,
And a figger there astonishin'.
And very careful of the father,
Aw, terrible, that was difficult rather;
Bein' studdier, but apt to get dry,
And slippin' into Callow's on the sly.
But she had a way to keep him in
Of a night. And grog, but 'lowancin'.
Did she water it? No! God bless my sowl!
Do ye think she'd ever be that bould
To water the father's grog? Aw, dear!
Water? No! Did ye ever hear?
No, but 'd play with him, and coax
To get the bottle from him. And little jokes.
And he'd reach out his hand, all shaky lek,
And she'd put her arms around his neck,
And kiss him, and laugh, and look in his face;
And all the little lovin' ways—
And the hand goin' fumblin'. And then, I'll be blowed,
If she wouldn' be shovin' a pipe in the road,
And grips and sucks, and it lighted at her
In a crack. And “No matter,” he'd say, “no matter!”
Aw, the grand ould man. And a bit of a smile,
And knew what she was up to all the while.
Hav'n' I seen them? And the proud she was
When she got him to bed with only a glass!
But, bless ye! that was years before;
For the Docthor come urrov it more and more,
Like urrov a drame, like urrov a fog.
And the man could sit and take his grog
Like a Christian. Moderate lek, that way—
Moderate—that's the time o' day.
Just with the glory he was takin'
In the daughter, and the happy she was makin'
The heart of the man, and the beautiful
She kep' the house. And never dull,
But as bright as bright. And then, for all,
He began to see the lusty and tall,
And the handsome she'd got, and the full in the hips,
And the sweet talk runnin' off her lips
Like water off an oar on the feather;
And the sensible; and altogether
The woman she was, and knowin' a dale.
So, by gough, he spoke to Pazon Gale,
And the two of them stuck to like fun,
And taught her everythin' under the sun—
Taechin'! Bless ye! reggilar!
Aw, they loved to be taechin' her.
And books and copies, and sayin' and writin',
And the ould pianna—aw, just delightin'—
That was it, delightin' you know—
And the terrible fast she was larnin' though,
And all about doctorin' and bones,
And a hommer at her choppin' the stones,
That they're sayin' is rather suspicious o' meltin',
And showin' the lines the world is built on.
So you see the gel was just in her bloom;
And no chance but Misther Harry Combe
Would be seein' that—just a puffec flower,
Lek the sun 'll be shinin' after a shower,
Puffec, you know, in every part—
Aw, the little spot was in his heart
Afore he left the Island—yes!
Chut! Bless your sowl! he couldn' miss—
But didn' say a word, but back
The very next month! Aw, he wouldn' be slack,
Wouldn' yandher lad! Aw, very keen,
And as handsome a chap as ever was seen—
Aye, Harry Combe they were callin' him,
And still it wasn' the father's name—
Curious! And lookin' bad,
Not havin' the name your father had—
Lek somethin' wrong, you know, but wasn';
And there's plenty of them 'll have a dozen.
But I don't know. But, however, it come,
And not long about it, the way with some;
But out and spoke, and axed her straight
Would she be after marryin him. “All right!”
Said Katty, at least—you understand—
Well, of coorse—aw, a very nice young man.
And it's lek there'd be a dale of blushin' goin',
And what did he mane? And hardly knowin';
And all to that; but come at last,
The little word that makes all fast—
The little word—and whenever he gorrit
He'd put a kiss upon her forrit
Like on a queen—at least I'm tould—
The quality!—But bless your sowl!
And it was beautiful to see
Their little ways—aw, love-ely.
'Deed I've been hidin' in the goss
A' purpose to see how happy she was,
The darlin'! And hardly right, you know
But still for all—just so, just so!
Of coorse, and the world is full of slandher;
But angels might have looked at yandher.
One everin' I seen them on the How—
Christmas Head they're callin' it now—
Yes, yes! you're right; that's the name they hef,
And the one taken and the other left—
The Bible is sayin'—but lower down
Just under the cairn where the Rose was found
And an ould well there the people was thinkin'
Very holy, and goin' a drinkin'
For cures, or maybe laevin' a pin
Or a halfpenny for luck to be in,
But rather lek them Romans, eh?
With their 'dolatry; but hard to say—
Sittin' there beside the well,
Aw a pleasant spot and peaceable,
And these penny-walls and little ferins
Has got a very putty appearance;
And the water that's in tremenjus cowl' —
So I was takin' a little sthrowl,
Bein under orders to jine a ship
The very next day, and a longish trip,
And you never know, and—aye, man, aye!
Lek it would be a sort of good-bye—
So of coorse pretendin' not to know them,
But blest if they didn' call me to them,
And then they tould me the way it was,
And goin' to be married for Michaelmas.
And “Tom,” she says, “you've been a brother
To me,” she says, and a kind of a smother
In her throat, you know, lek she couldn' refrain,
And the tears come rushin' like the rain,
And she caught my two hands with the two of hers,
And she looked the long look in my face.
And “I'm so happy, Tom,” she said,—
“Thank God,” says I, and I bent my head,
And she pressed her hands against my lips,
And I kissed the little finger tips.
“Thank God!” I said, but I couldn' say more—
And I went, but when I got down on the shore
Thinks I, “This 'll never do at all—
Booin' away like a funeral—
And, by gough, I don't like to see her cry,
And, by gough, I'll put her in heart,” says I.
So I turned, and stood, and I gave them a cheer—
I did though—terrible sharp and clear—
“Hoorah! Hoorah!” and up with the cap
Agin the wind, and down with a flap
In the water; but seen her laughin' there,
Laughin', laughin'—never fear!
God bless her—she's a married woman
Now, and a little family comin';
And livin' in England, and got the father
Very nice though living with her.
So that's The Doctor. And now, my men,
I think it's time to be turnin' in.
Good night! It's feelin' to be rough.
You liked little Katty? Well, that's enough.

II
KITTY OF THE SHERRAGH VANE

I. PART I

II. PART II

III
THE SCHOOLMASTERS

FO' C'S'LE YARNS

Third Series

PRELUDE

I
THE MANX WITCH

A STORY OF THE LAXDALE MINES

The Pazon that overtook her there
Comin' home from Hollantide fair—
The Pazon? No, but Nessy Brew—
Overtook her at Follieu,
Past Bibaloe—aye, man, aye—
Middlin' near the Never-say-die—
Toplisses—you'll know the spot—
Nessy Brew though, whether or not—
Nessy—her of coorse that had been
At the fair—The Pazon? navar was seen,
Nor navar could be at the like of yandhar—
Pazon Gale! you goosie-gandhar—
What are you thinkin' of? Navar! navar!
Some people's got a notion they're clavar—
Witty—eh? But navar mind.
Cryin'? most despard! cryin', cryin',
Cryin' fit to break her heart,
The Pazon was sayin'; and her that smart,
Of a rule, and noways apt to be freckened
Night or day.
So the Pazon reckoned
She must have got in some trouble, and hauls
Ould Smiler back in the breeches, and calls;
And “Nessy,” he says, “is that you?
It's Nessy, isn't it? Nessy Brew?”
Dark, you know, and drizzlin' rain—
But Nessy wouldn' answer again
For a bit—don't ye see? lek didn' want
The Pazon to know her, and made a slant,
And stoopin' there, and in on the ditch.
But the Pazon gave a little skitch,
And got in front, and pinned her as nate
As pozzible, and—
“You're very late
On the road,” he says—and waein' and woin'—
And—“How are you on the road alone?
Extrorn'ry!” says the Pazon—“What!
Alone!” he says—and this and that,
But kind—aw, bless ye! kind thallure —
And—“Nessy, Nessy, to be sure!”
And—“Get up, and tell me all aburrit.”
So Nessy seen there was nothin' for it
But up she must in the Pazon's gig:
And then she tould him all the rig—
Well—maybe not all—not raisonable—
A gel, you know—they're hardly able—
Aisy! aisy with the lek!
All! God bless ye! you musn' expeck—
And talkin' to a Pazon—eh?
And didn' know hardly what to say,
But tould him—Says she, “I didn' lave Doolish
Alone at all”; and rather foolish
She was feelin' of coorse, aw sartinly—
“There was two people tuk the road with me,”
Says Nessy. “Two,” says the Pazon, “aw dear!
And did you meet them in the feer!”
“The feer?” says Nessy, “no—at laste
It might ha been—a nisy place
In a field,” she says, “there was hosses there—
Is that what people is callin' the feer?
Hosses, and gingerbread, and pop,
And cows, and calves—but I didn' stop.”
“Didn' ye?” says the Pazon then;
“And was it two women, or was it two men
You tuk the road with?” Aw, not a word
From Nessy. “I think,” says the Pazon, “I heard
Your friends down there on the Whitebridge hill.”
“Aw,” says Nessy, “are they fightin' still?”
“No,” says the Pazon, “they warn' together,
One was far ahead of the other,
Shoutin' though, the two of them—
Yes, I think it'll be the same;
And you'll 'scuse me,” he says—sittin up like a crowbar
Was the Pazon then—“they were hardly sober,
Hardly,” he says; and then his vice
Gev a little hem! like puttin' a splice
On his kind ould throat—“a little,” he says,
“A little tossicated—yes—
A little, I think; a little queer;
And usin' language, I think they were,
Language—aye—”
“They were fightin',” says Nessy,
“When I left them—aw, messy! messy!”
She say, “they've lost one another, that's it,
Lost they have, and'll hommer and hit
And grab in the dark there, and navar get hould,
And'll take and get their death of could—
Oh dear! oh dear!” and began a sabbin'.
“I suppose this homm'rin' and hittin' and grabbin'
Is about a young woman called Nessy Brew,”
Says the Pazon. “Oh! they'd come for you,”
Says Nessy, “they'd come for you they wud”;
And “Aw, the muck! and aw, the blood!
Yes, sir, aw yes, sir! aw, poor Jack—
And Harry too—” And—“Let's turn back!”
“And why did you lave them?” says the vicar;
And—“The two of them,” she says, “in liquor;
And I thought, sir, I thought, when they hadn' me,
It's peacefuller they'd be sure to be,
And helpin' each other, and takin' rest,
And forgettin' me.”—“Aw, indeed,” he says,
“Forgettin' you then—aw, the poor chile!”
And he smiled, and bless ye! you'll feel a smile
In the dark—“forgettin', and lost the bearin's—
Poor thing! and have you got your fairin's
In your handkecher? And—“Yes.”—“All right!”
Says the Pazon, “you'll not see these young men to-night
Again,” he says; so—“Come up, Smiler!”
And away, and tryin' to reconcile her.
But scoulded a little too, and How
Did the father ever go and allow
The like of her, that hadn' no call,
To be goin' to Hollantide fair at all?
But goin' by herself? “I went with my aunt,”
Says Nessy. “She's a woman that's scant
Of prudence,” says the Pazon, says he—
“Billy's widow—and where is she?”
“I think she's tuk at these poleeses,”
Says Nessy. “There's aunts that's worse till their nieces,”
The Pazon said; and indeed he'd spake
To her father, he said. Aw, the sake! the sake!
“And beseechin' he wouldn'. “I owe it,” he says,
“To your father,” the good-naturedest,
The simplest man that ever he knew—
“Poor Brew!” he says, “poor Jemmy Brew!”
And then he spoke though, ter'ble nice—
Aw, the beautiful advice!
Delicake though, delicake—
Aw, that was the Pazon, bide or break.
But when they came to the steep hill
At the Cloven Stones, “Sit still, sit still!”
Says the Pazon, and down on his tippitoes,
And a hould of Smiler by the nose,
And leadin', and thinkin', and how he must warn her,
And “serious very!” turns Kelly's corner
At the bottom yandhar, and a stip and a step,
And a heave and a plump, and where was this rep?
Maybe a mile aback on the road
By gough! and him that navar knowed—
Tuk her opportunity,
Slipt out, and away, of coorse to see
Could she find these chaps, aw, I'll be bail—
“The little monkey!” says Pazon Gale.
Aw, bless ye! I've heard him tellin'
Another Pazon, ould Pazon Gellin,
That was on St. Mark's, I did, I did,
Yes, and shakin' his dear old head:
“And I'm not in the habit of the lek,
Mr. Gellin,” he says, “and you'd hardly expeck,
But tuk like that, and the way she'd fled,
I called her a little monkey!” he said.
Little she wasn', no! doodoss!
But aw, the funny the Pazon was!
Good though, good; aw, bless your heart!
That's the timber'll navar start.
'Bout ship, sir! aye immadient,
And then this poor ould reverend gent,
Backards and forrards the best of the night
Drivin' there, a most shockin' sight,
If he could ha' been seen; but made up his mind
At last to go on to Ballaquine,
Brew's farm that was lyin' east,
Far beyond the Pazon's place,
And he'd tell the father and see would he go
To look for his daughter himself . . . and so
Off with him straight, and hardly awake—
Aw, bless ye! the day was begun to break,
And—Mrs. Gale—aw well of coorse,
And nathural, and shuttin' the doors
Every night at nine o'clock;
And let a man be as studdy as a rock,
And a Pazon too, but still, dear me!
Lookin' ter'ble like on the spree—
Backard and forrard, and niddin' and noddin',
Just like ould Jemmy Ballavoddin—
And the Misthress—
Well, I'll say no more,
But up with him there and slams at the door
With the end of his whip, and hurroose! hurroo!
Jemmy! James! Mr. Brew! Mr. Brew!
And Jemmy to put his head out of the windy,
And—Bless his sowl! and what was the shindy?
And—“Is Nessy at home?” says the Pazon then:
Nessy at home! “Why—Nessy ven!
Nessy! goodness grayshers! Pazon—
Nessy at home! a queer thing to be as'in';
D'ye think she's out agate o'the priddhars
As arly as this?” So the Pazon considhars
A bit, and—“Call her then,” he said,
“Call her.”—“Nessy, ger up urrov bed,
And spake to the Pazon—funny work!”
And shuts the windhar with a jerk.
And then another windhar went down,
And out come a bunch of curls as brown
As a nut, and a face as fresh as a rose,
And just the smallest taste of clothes,
And the sun all dabbin' her like fire,
And looks at the Pazon as modest—“Retire,
Retire,” says the Pazon; “that'll do, that'll do,”
And not another word to Brew
Nor the daughter neither; but turns the hoss,
And home with him. It wasn' cross
He was lookin', no! but sad though, sad,
Lek sorrowful, lek a way he had.
Aye, but Brew was puzzled greatly,
Bless ye! he was beat complately—
The Pazon wand'rin' about in the dark
Of a Hollantide night—a 'stonishin' lark,
Wantin' Nessy before she was up!
Dear me! Could he have had a sup,
Or what? but no! unpozzible—
The Pazon—aye there's some of them will,
No doubt! no doubt! but drinkin'! him!
Aw, bless your granny! sink or swim,
That was the Pazon—
“What cud it ha' been,
Nessy?” he says, “I navar seen
The lek,” he says: “was it walkin' he was
In his sleep, or drivin', at laste, and the hoss
Tuk for the Ballaquine on a chance?”
But no! God bless him! there wasn' no sense
In that; and the late or the arly—which?
And beat all conscience and as dark as pitch
The most of the time—and
“Nessy gel,
What could he be wantin'? Was he lookin' unwell?
But my goodness grayshers! just to ax
Were you up, and then to be makin' tracks
Lek immadient there—d'ye see!
And Smiler—aye—nearly druv off his legs—
What could it be, Nessy?”
“Maybe eggs,”
Says Nessy—“Yes, he's thinkin' a dale
Of our fresh eggs is Pazon Gale—
Tould me so.'—“Aw dear, that's rum,”
Says Brew, “and why didn' ye give him some?”
“Because he didn' ax,” says she—
“Ax? is it ax?” and “Fiddledee!
Eggs! woman, eggs! it couldn' ha' been—
Bless my sowl! the man'd be keen
For his eggs that'd come that arly—eh?
Nessy, Nessy.”—“Well, anyway,”
Says Nessy, “the Pazon's allis talkin'
About our eggs; ‘They're nice though shockin',’
He was sayin', ‘just like wax.’ ”
“My goodness grayshers! why didn' he ax?”
Says the father. “Maybe he forgot,”
Says Nessy. Then Brew got middlin' hot,
And “You're just talkin' nonsense,” he says, “be quite,
Not another word!”
Then he laughted outright
When he thought of the Pazon and the way he cut,
And then he gev a little chut!
And “I have it!” he says, “it's Copper, guy heng!
Copper! that's the very theng!”
Copper—a mailie cow that was arrim,
Three cows, I think, not much of a farrim,
More like a croft, or the like of that—
“Copper—that's what he was at:
And knew I was wantin' to sell her—eh?
But couldn' go with her anyway
To the fair—that accounts for this scarum-scorum,
Freckened some would be before him—
That's the arly—dear me!
The anxious lek the man must be—
It'll come in the price, aw 'deed it will—
He's hot upon her—she's very lill,
But good uncommon—twelve I'll take for her,
Twelve pound ten.”—“And why didn' he spake for her?
Surely he might have axed,” says she.
“I suppose he forgot it.”—“Fiddlededee!”
Says Nessy—“Like the eggs,” says Brew,
And he-he-he and hoo-hoo-hoo—
They laughed and they laughed—“forgot!” “forgot!”
“Like the eggs,” “like the cow,” like the—go to pot!
“Forgot, no doubt, forgot!” and as merry
The two of them there—aw very, very.
That night I was up at the Ballaquine;
And there was Nessy, and Sally Behind—
The aunt, you know, a widow woman,
And a sister of Brew's, that was imp'rint uncommon,
And bad with the tongue; she was goin' a-callin'
Sally Behind, for the way she was fallin'
Abaft of her midships: Manx? yes, Manx
For all her married name was Banks—
Brew's sister—and the talk that was there!
And the Pazon comin' home from the fair
And as drunk! aw, bless ye! as drunk as rosin —
That was the aunt. “He wasn'! he wasn!”
Says Nessy, “no such a thing!”—“And how
Do you know?” says the aunt; aw then the row!
My gough! they went at it!
But Jemmy Brew
Was smilin' there, and “Hush then! shoo!”
He says; and “Here's a chap with brains—
What's your opinion, Thomas Baynes?”
“My opinion,” says I, “it's aisy given—
If ever there was an angel in heaven,
It's Pazon Gale. Did ye ever hear,”
Says I, “of angels the wuss for beer?
Gerr out!” I says, “I know his trim,
If you don't, and I'll fight for him,
I'll die for him, I'll be cut in pieces,
And fifty aunts, nor fifty nieces—
“But—as'in' your pardon, Nessy,” I says,
“You've tuk his part—all right! success
To the handsome gel you allis were,
Aye, and gennal —but that woman there,”
I says, “I think she'd better be cookin'
Her own mate,” I says, “and lookin'
To herself a bit both before and behind her—
And look slippy,” I says, just a lill reminder,
A sort of a dig d'ye see? woahup!
Look out for squalls! My gough! She up
With a clout, and made a drive that vicious
She didn' strike me, but she knocked two dishes
And a pazil of plates there off the dresser;
And the niece to shout whatavar'd possess her
To do such jeel with the crockery
Of other people—very free,
Very—and batthar remember the cost—
And it wasn' her house—
And no more it was;
For she lived in a thalthan up the river
Belongin' to Brew that wouldn' have her
In the house with him at all—no, he wudn'!
Not even when the wife died, which died very sudden,
And Nessy only a child—no, no!
So I thought it was just about time to go—
But I stood for the Pazon—aw, cut and thrust!
Ye see, I was lovin' him scandalous—
Aye and everybody—and no thanks!
Only this craythur—this Mrs. Banks—
She didn' love him, and she didn' hate him,
And she knew she couldn' aggravate him
No more till a magpie, or a sparrer—
But just the dirty tongue that was arrer —
A miser'ble thing, that deserved to be skelpit—
Only it's lek she couldn' help it.
Now what d'ye think this Nessy had done
That Hollantide night, the time she run
And left the Pazon? There was one of these parties
She never seen, for, behould ye! my hearties
Tuk diff'rin' roads, the one to the shore,
And the one to the mountain above Slieu-Core.
So Nessy happened on the track
Of the mountain beauty—and that was Jack—
Jack Pentreath—aw, Manx thallure —
But his father was Cornish to be sure—
Neddy St. Ives they were callin' the father,
But Jack—aw, Jack—that was flighty rather—
Jack Pentreath—well, no, I'll not say
Flighty either; but ye see the way
It was—but hould on, you'll hear, you'll hear.
The other chap was Harry Creer—
From Dalby he came, and so he was gettin'
“Harry from Dalby.”
Well, Jack was sweatin'
Up the mountain, and a hullabaloo,
And a uiv'rin' and shoutin' what would he do,
And where was this villyan? and—“Aisy! aisy!”
Says Nessy to him, “you needn' go crazy—
Come,” she says. “And will you go linkin'
With me?” says Jack. “Aw well, I'm thinkin'
I'd better,” says Nessy; “it'll be more safer,”
And offs with him—aw, as tight as a wafer—
Poor Jack! but the plazed, and the tittle-tattle,
And studdied hisself. For they'd had a battle
Who'd she link with? and wouldn' take rest,
And round and round like compasses—
And her goin' duckin' under their arms—
Aw, bless ye! trust these lill madarms!
(Lill she wasn')—and then they'd got gript
Like the very deuce, and Nessy slipt
To one side, and them two kissin' like mad,
Till they found by the whisker who they had—
And then—hurroose!
But as nice, you navar,
Now—aw, dear! and leadin' him clavar
Down a lane by the Ballacrie,
Just to dodge the Pazon—aye—
That's it, man—Sithee! (these cotton-balls )sithee!
And comin' out at Lewin's smithy,
And heard the gig, and “come!” and besaechin',
And dragged him in there to the praechin'
That was in the chapel—
Aw, a nice pair!
And the people gave a ter'ble stare—
But Jack was like a cherubim—
That happy—but had to be hoult in the hymn
At Nessy—aye: and the Pazon druv
Past all right. And then to shove
This Jack to the door, that was smellin' of gin,
And makin' faces astonishin',
And the light in his eyes—aw, she stuck to the chap,
And whenever they heard the Pazon's trap,
They tuk for the hedge, or wherever they cud,
And got him home—intarmined she wud—
Intarmined.
It'd be on the stroke of three
When they fetched his lodgin'—not a light to see,
Nor nothin', and all of them in bed;
But a-side of the house a little shed,
For tools and the lek, and not even a door in,
And just a push, and left him snoorin';
And home, and the father in bed since seven,
And thinkin' she wouldn' be after eleven,
But was for all; but navar knew—
Aw, an aisy ould chap was Jemmy Brew.
Well now, I'll tell you about Harry and Jack—
Aw, dacent fellows, that's a fact.
Jack was lill, and Harry was big,
And sometimes takin' a hearty swig,
I tell ye, but dacent fellows enough.
Harry was tall, but Jack was tough;
Jack was just like pin wire,
Jack was just like made of fire,
Lean and supple, hard as a rock,
A reg'lar little fightin' cock.
Harry's hair was just like tow,
Jack's was as black as the wing of a crow,
Jack was sallow and dark o' the skin,
Harry was red asstonishin'—
Red though, red: so that was the pair,
Jack Pentreath and harry Creer.
Now red or yellow, blue or black,
A passionater fellow till Jack
There couldn' ha' been—aw, desperate!
He'd have it out, he wouldn' wait—
He'd have it out whatever it was—
Have it out—no lip nor sauce
Would do for Jack, no chiffin' nor chaffin';
Navar bothered much with laughin,
Didn' Jack—a word and a blow—
Terrible in earnest though,
Perseverin', if you'll understand—
Jack was like two dogs in one,
The dog to hunt, and the dog to fight;
But still he wasn' takin' delight
In fightin'—no; nor wantin' to be
Cock-o'-the-mine—
Stay—let me see—
Did I tell you they were miners? no?
Miners, miners, just so—
Miners the two of them—Laxdale mines,
That's countin' ter'ble for the finds,
And the big wheel yandhar. But, however,
Jack could work the fisses clever.
Harry wasn' no match for him,
For all the big of body and limb,
Harry'd fight of coorse, if he had to,
But I don't suppose he was very glad to.
But Jack, ye see, if he had a desire
To anything, he was nothin' but fire
And rage and fury—my gough, the sperrit!
And wouldn' give in afore he'd gerrit —
Wouldn'! mortal uncomfible
To have daelin's with the lek, for they will,
And they will and they will, and it isn' no use;
Can't help it, it's lek, houldin' on like the deuce;
Like these bull-dogs, when once they're gript the teeth,
There's nothin' 'll slacken them, only death.
Uncomfible they are though, shockin',
And so is a bull-dog, takin' and lockin',
His jaw like a vice. And special gels—
They can't be thinkin' of nothin' else
Night or day, the whole of the world
Is nothin' but her, and the head goes whirl,
And the heart like a burnin' fiery furnace—
That's the chaps that is in earnest,
And no matter the why and no matter the fur
It's her and her and her and her—
Her they must have—they must, they must,
And all the rest is only dust
And dirt. And the same for everything—
An oar, a pick—but faymales! by jing!
Faymales! aw, bless ye! simply crazy—
That's it—nor they can't nor they won't take it aisy.
Now Harry was a hearty lad,
But ter'ble hard to make him mad
About the lek: he liked a gel—
Very well—very well—
Liked her—certainly; but if he got vexed,
Or bothered, you know, just on to the next—
That was Harry—much the same
Whatever happened—a sort of craem
These chaps has got for blood: it's cool
And sweet and that, and, of a rule,
It's not aisy put out, but—liquor—well,
Of coorse, of coorse. I could hardly tell
Had Jack any blood in him, but when
The craythur was a fightin', and then
He had plenty of it and to spare,
But difficult to say the where
It was stowed at him. Harry's was in his face,
All over him was Harry's case.
Aye, but Jack—aw, none of your blubber
At Jack, not him—just Indian-rubber
All over, aw, a bird of the game,
None of your buttermilk, none of your craem,
Dry, man, dry—and the springy hipped,
The reg'lar whalebone! See him stripped!
That was the thing—aw, belly or back!
See him stripped, and there was Jack.
He was raelly awful, a sort of a shine
Like shells, like—aw, it's no use try'n'—
Comin' off him—lek a kind o'brassy—
Lek these yallar images, aye was he.
Lek the blood, ye see, was a sort of a venom,
Or varnish, or vitriol that was in him.
Quick though, quick—for Harry would swing
His arms like a windmill, but Jack would spring
Like a goose's merry-thought, and at ye he'd come
Like a dart, like a wasp, like a rocket by gum!
So there was two of Miss Nessy's beaux—
Miners, I tould ye—but goodness knows
The chaps that was after yandhar gel—
Respectable? respectable!
I should think so—respectable is it?
Eiras, bless ye! would be payin' their visit
To the Ballaquine—yes, eiras, drapers
From Dhoolish, bless ye! with their capers,
Foremen, overseers, a cap'n,
Loadin' there on the beach, would drap in
Now and then—I've seen the lek.
But, just azackly the way you'll expeck,
The young miners it was that was schamin'
To get this Nessy; just like claimin'
She belonged to them whoever'd be
The lucky chap—lek proppity,
Lek shares, lek—swore together to watch
That none of these dandy divils'd snatch
The prize, the beauty of Ballaquine,
This rose that had grew at the mouth of the mine.
That was their talk. And a sort of a club,
Or a saycret 'ciety, and hub-and-nub,
And sentries just lek souldiers placin',
And takin' their turn of a Sunday facin'
The chapel, and up the road, and grips,
And officers, and passes—“Lips”
Was the word, I believe, and the counterword—
Well, I forget; but still I've heard—
But—Lips—that's Nessy—the mouth? just so—
Like a puffeck rose in the full blow—
Eyes, of coorse, and nice they were—
Blue—yes, blue; but the most that was there,
I tell ye, couldn' see nothin' but just
The mouth. It wasn' a sort of a puss,
Puckered and quilted and hemmed and hitched
And gored and eylotted and stitched—
Plenty of it—reefs and reefs,
And more to come; and then the teefs
All set round—aw, I'll be bail
Drew to scale, drew to scale—
The mouth she had—aw, hit or miss,
For all the world like a big red kiss.
So these chaps was jealous you navar seen,
And had her for a sort of a queen;
But every miner to have his chance,
And whichever she'd chose, the rest at once
To give in, resign her, they said, resign her;
But only she must marry miner.
Aw, many's the blade has been tuk and ducked
In the big dam yandhar, or clouted and mucked,
And all his fine clothes a soakin' like runnet,
And navar the wiser who was it that done it;
Aye, and caught in the dark, and pounded
At these divils, and navar the one of them rounded
Upon the others—aw, true as wedges,
And huntin' these drapers over the hedges,
And sthoo'd a chap by the name of Jones,
Every step to the Cloven Stones.
Was I in it? ho-ho-ho!
Sailors and miners—bless ye—no!
Wouldn' ha' had me, couldn' neither—
Differn' cattle altogether,
Rovin' divils sailors is,
Navar much in the one place:
Besides these miners is more of a clan,
Keepin' more on the one hand;
And I couldn' for sartin allis agree with them,
But aisy enough for th' get on the spree with them—
Rather too aisy, for the matter of that;
But every hatter his own hat,
And every trade its own tricks,
And its own saycrets—nix is nix,
Wherever you'll be.
But, houldin' their own,
There they had me—the rose that had grown
At the mouth of their mine—and chaps to be comin'
Sniffin' and snuffin' like bumbees hummin'
Around their rose—it isn' raison,
And it isn' sense—the same with grazin'
On the commons, the same with fishin'-ground,
The same with everything; and you're bound
To stick to it too. And a gel like Nessy—
Dear me! if it was Dick Quayle-vessy,
He's yours for all; look after the lek—
“Cair! cair!” says Billy Injebrek.
But a splendid gel like Nessy—chut!
It's nothin' but reg'lar poachin': “Cut!”
Says you to this draper from Dhoolish, “be off!
You Ramsey sneak.” You'd be middlin' soft
If you didn'—to let them gather your rose
That handy from under your very nose!
“She's ours,” you'd say, “and we mean to keep her.”
If he stands to it, hit him a tap on the peeper—
They're not much these dandies—down with the fut!
“Cut!” says you, and by gough they'll cut.
So that's the way they'd all combine
For the honour and glory of the mine.
Supposin' she didn' marry the one o'them
All right, all right! still every man o'them
Had had his chance, and equally
She wouldn' be marryin' nobody.
Friday is pay-day: one Saturday
I was in at Callow's as you may say,
Lek a little sociable or that;
And a hape of miners; and there they sat
Like a Quakers' meetin' no talkin', no laughin',
Not the smallest taste of chaffin',
Till all of them was in the room,
Bless my sowl! a sort of a gloom
Over the lot. It'd be very near
A week or so after Hollantide feer,
And every chap, as he tuk his place
On the settle or that, you'd see the rest
Lift up their eye as sollum though,
Lek axin'; and him with a sort of a no,
And a shake of the head, and out with his clay,
And charges and sucks and draws away.
I was noticin'; and Jack, d'ye see,
Come in, and the shake accordantly;
And Harry last; and the whole of them lookin'
But Harry had a pipe arrim smookin',
And navar no shake o' the head they'd get,
But just a little sort of a spit
At Harry.
Now it appears they were signin'
Articles—I think there was nine in—
Rules, is it? I don't care—
Rules then—that they'd run it fair;
No chap to take advantage lek
Over the rest; and the smallest speck
Lek it would be of encouragement—
Lek a word, or a nod—then this here gent
To kermoonicate it to the lot
Under penalties to be shot,
For all I know, or hung as high
As Haman, if he tould a lie.
Honour bright! I seen the book
Years after, and even a look
Was down, and how much was countin' for it,
'Longside the name of the chap that gorrit —
Somethin' like—Jeremiah Wilde—
Looked at him in the chapel, and smiled—
Two marks; Dick Clucas passin' the farrim,
And Nessy hove a priddha arrim.
One mark and a half—Nathaniel Fathom—
Nessy held the hymn-book with him
Last Sunday, countin' seven marks—
Lek that ye know—aw dear, the larks!
Nonsense you're thinkin'? Aw, lek enough!
But I hardly think ye know the stuff
Them Laxdale chaps is made of, no—
Curious very, treminjis though.
Now it wasn' a meetin' they had at all,
Lek they're callin' it special general,
Of the 'ciety, but just drop in
Anybody, and yarns to spin
And talk to talk. So Harry Creer
Wasn' bound to tell them theer
Why he didn' shake the head,
Lek meanin' nothin' done or said
At Nessy to him that week, you know,
But Jack was feelin' dreadful low,
For Nessy had spoke to him sure enough,
But ter'ble savage, ter'ble rough,
And the dirty turn-out and sent him flyin',
And he must never come near the Ballaquine—
“Ye nasty thing! you're not fit,
You're no better till a ideit!”
So Jack was mad, and “Come out!” he says—
And ter'ble winkin' at the rest—
“Come out!” he says, and as grim as grim;
So out they went, Harry and him.
Aw dear! when he had him out on the street
The row that was at them! I didn' see't
Nor nobody, but Harry was tellin'—
“What's this?” he says, “what's this, ye villain?”
And a grip of his throat, houldin' on like a ferret.
“That's not azactly the way to gerrit,”
Says Harry, chokin'. “Let go! let go!”
He slackened a bit, but very slow—
Greedy lek—“It wasn' much,”
Says Harry, “bless your sowl! don't clutch
Like yandhar—only a handful of gravel
I hove in the window.”—“The devil! the devil!”
Says Jack—“you hove—and—well then, well!
She come, she come—aw, it's aisy to tell,”
And begun a cryin'. “She come,” says Harry,
“Yes, she come, but she didn' tarry;
‘Harry Creer,’ she says, ‘the sot,’
And down with the window like a shot.”
“Aw Harry, Harry!” and grips his hand,
“Harry, Harry, Harry man!”
And—“Harry, you're a friend of mine;
Keep away from the Ballaquine,
Aw do, la! do! aw yes! aw dear!
You're not lovin' her, Harry Creer!
Harry, Harry! just only the pride,
And lek not likin' to be put o' one side
When all the chaps is sportin' their figures—
Of coorse, of coorse; it's not the biggerst
That's lovin' the most, you know it's not,
Harry, you know! aw, promise to't!
Promise!” and Harry half willin' there—
A good-natured sowl. But—“Swear it! swear!
Swear, Harry!” and an oath like your arm
For the long, most despard, like some charm
At these wutches, awful! “Liver and lights”—
Lek cussin' all his odd jints—
Till Harry got freckened altogether;
But he didn' like to deny him either—
“With blood,” says Jack, “with blood, with blood!”
And out with the knife.
But Harry stood
Again' the notion very stiff,
And—No, and he didn't like. “Your shift,”
Says Jack like lightnin', the quick he was—
But Harry gettin' rather cross—
“Will you change your shift with Tommy Mawby?”
“Well, what for?” says Harry from Dalby.
“What for?” says Harry—stupid rather.
“Because we'll be up and down together,
And then I'll know where you are,” says Jack;
Aw, as straight as straight; no keepin' back,
No sneakin' hoky-poky ways
With yandhar fellow, if you plaze.
Semple, you're thinkin'? that may be,—
Love is just semplicity—
Real love, of coorse—chat!
Semplicity! why, bless ye! that
Is love, is, is, is, is, or oughter—
Is fire semple? is air? is water?
Semple? “Sincere,” the Pazon was sayin'—
Sincerity—oh, isn' it plain?
One thought, one thought—aw, through and through,
One in her, and one in you—
Semple, single—isn' it clear?
Nothin' else but just sincere—
A great word with the Pazon—foolishness?
No, no, my lads! it's the best thing, the best,
It's the only thing, just the one bright flash
That quivers through this world of trash
And make-believe; it's swift, it's short,
It's gone—and we're all the better for't,
Aye, and the wiser—couldn' stay long,
Not like that—you need to be young
To work that horse-power, mind ye, my men!
Aw yes, you can love again,
But not like that—it's only the once—
Aw, give it a chance! give it a chance!
One wave flung in upon the shore,
That bursts and breaks for evermore.
So none of your humbug, backin' and fillin',
But just straight off—Would Harry be willin'
To work, you know, on the shift with him,
And then it would be the same trim
For the two of them? “What! navar free
To go by myself?” says Henery,
“And try my luck! lek fastenin' us
Together like dogs”—and he gev a cuss—
“I won't,” he says.
Aw, Jack made a run,
And caught him, and gript him, and cryin' like fun,
And beggin' him for God's sake,
And the tears! the tears! like urrov a lake—
Aw, the slush of tears—“Harry, Harry!”
A nice chap for the gel to marry!
The tears then, is it the tears ye mane?
The tears—yes, yes, but comin' like rain—
There's everything in tears—of coorse!
Look at the pressure, look at the force!
Shallow water? go to pot!
There's shallow water, and there's water that's not.
Pumpin'! says you; there's some people can,
But the tears of a man that is a man
Is wantin' no pumpin', nor no tap, nor no cock,
I know I've got to the real rock
When I see the lek. You may grin like apes,
You may squeeze your face in a thousand shapes,
You may smooth it till it's like pin-jane,
But the tears, the tears that comes like rain—
Then you have him—see! he's cryin'!
That's the chap! aw, there's no denyin'.
And childher—is it only pushin'
Their finger that makes the tears come rushin'
Till they're nothin' but tears, just a livin' spout?
It's because they're turnin' inside out
Easier till grown-up people, being pli'ble,
Aye—but us that's ouldher is li'ble
To get hard and stiff, or else all flabby,
Just a miser'ble sort of drabby,
Lek feelin' nothin', or seemin' we didn',
Like an ould boot upon a midden.
God bless the childher! God bless their wayses!
They're spinnin' no cobwebs before their faces—
Not much like spiders isn' them—
Yandhar David too the same,
In the Bible you've got him, like it appears—
Aw, David was the boy for tears!
I don't hould no more till you
With allis cryin', boo-boo-boo!
Shlishin'-slushin', snittle-snottle;
But “Put my tears in thy bottle,”
Says David, “thy bottle,” lek God, it's meant,
Had a bottle arrim, lek fillin' with scent,
And like enough a goold stopper—
Aw, beautiful! but must be a whopper
To hould all the tears—a sort of decanter,
Lek silver-mounted—but I wouldn' vanture
To say it was really that, but just
To give you a notion, the way we must
With the lek, of coorse, bein' what ye may call—
Aye, man, aye—but aisy all!
So Harry couldn' stand this cry'n',
And promised there, but he wouldn' sign
In blood, no, no! “It's usual done,”
Says Jack, but didn' see the fun,
Didn' Harry, but just to be
On the same shift, and glad to get free
Of this chap and all his hollabaloo—
A day shift it was too,
Comin' off about five in the everin',
And washed, I tell ye, and as nate as a pin,
And no hurry at all, but the smile on the face,
And plenty of chaps about the place,
Souljerin' there, but off on the sly
One after the other—“I think I'll try
Is the troutsis bitin',” they'd say, or bitendin'
To meet the coach, or had to be mendin'
Something at home; and'd walk that slack,
And the hands in the pockets, and the swing of the back,
And the slink and the slouch. But, out of sight,
Up to the Ballaquine with them straight—
Hedges and ditches; but, when they'd get near,
They'd slack again—aw, never fear!
And standin' and starin' very hard
At some oats, or some clover, or a pig in the yard,
Or—anything; or lookin' lek wond'rin'
How they come theer at all, and blund'rin'
In on the back, and in on the front,
Or the barn, or the haggard; and a surt of a grunt,
And a heave, and a start, lek “Bless my sowl!
Is this the Ballaquine?” And'd rowl
Their eyes most ter'ble, and amazin' to meet
The lot of them theer upon the street.
And the nudgin' and shovin' there'd be in
For one of them to make a begin
And talk to the gel; and whichever spoke,
One of the chaps'd gev a poke
To another, and then the lot'd buss
Out a laughin', and Nessy would puss
Her mouth, and give a little shy
With her head; and another chap'd try,
And then the roor, and “Woa, man, woa!”
And “He-he-he,” and “Ho-ho-ho!”
Miners? Miners! sartinly not;
Miners—they're another lot;
Miners' sooreyin' —aw, ye needn' doubt it!
They goes another way about it,
Does miners, aye, bein' chaps that way,
That's rather for turnin' night into day—
Down in the mines—the way you'd expeck—
Fond of the dark, and used of the lek,
Suckin' it just like liquorice-ball,
They can't take up with the daylight at all.
I've heard of people born in a mine,
Poor divils! aw, just as good as blind—
At laste they got no eyes to spake of,
Just a little bit of a strake of
Light, like a groove, like a seam, like a slit,
Livin' and dyin' in the pit—
That's England—that's these “lower urdhers” —
A despard country, full of murders—
But coals, of coorse, most horrid dirty,
And iron very near as clarty.
Aye; but in the Isle of Man
It's lead that's goin', you'll understand—
And a dale claner to work it is,
A dale claner—aw, 'deed yis!
Claner—but still they had to clane—
Sartinly—you know what I mane—
Titivatin'—“In the dark?” says you,
Lek you're thinkin' the differ wouldn' be knew?
Nonsense! where's a fellow's pluck
To coort, if he's feelin' all of a muck,
And sticky and sweaty—no, la! no!
A nice clean shirt and a collar though—
It's what you're feelin', not what you're lookin',
That's the style, or you'd better be hookin'.
And sure enough it's dark they hev it
Often enough; but as right as a trevit,
And comfible that way in your clothes—
Aw, it's doin' a dale, and goodness knows
Why, but it does; and maybe two'n
The mornin' at ye, a big strong moon
'll swim out of a cloud, and you to stand there
Lookin' up, and her in the wandhar
Lookin' down—and you like her to see
Your face as bright as a thingummagee,
And your handkecher, and all to that,
Nate, man, nate, and a cock on your hat,
Like a surt of a buck; and look at her—
The clane she is, and the tickelar.
Bless ye! don't I know the lek?
And the little shiver, and wrappin' the neck,
And lookin' at the moon and sigh'n',
And whisp'rin'—aw, the Ballaquine
Wasn' the only place, d'ye hear—
Not it! not it! aw dear! aw dear!
Strainin' out through honeysuckles,
Or ivy, and her hair in buckles
Of coils and coils; and her body stretchin'
Lek far away, lek longin', lek retchin'
To heaven itself, lek tuk and caught
At some angel—and even you forgot—
Yis, and then a sniff and a sniggle,
And just the smallest taste of a giggle
Lek—bless my sowl! you'd think it was sporras
In the thatch beginnin' their little good-morrows.
And then the coolin' of the mornin' air,
And things goin' a seein' everywhere,
And the crow of the cock, and the stir of the cows,
And the dead white light on the front of the house—
Aw, they do'n' like that! aw no they do'n'!
Aw, bless ye! it's just about time to be go'n'
Then; but still you'll not be off
Till she shuts the window; and often enough
It'll be broad day in the garden there,
And she'll see you, if you can't see her.
So mind you'll be smart—d'ye hear me, you sir?
Just take my word—it'll be well to do ser.
Aye, and this Nessy had a way
That lots of them has, to take and stay
A bit behind a curtain or that—
Aw, bless your life! just a bit of a cat
In the whole of them—aw, I'll allow—
Lek seein' how are ye actin' now.
You think her eye isn' on you—take care!
They're rather dangerous, they are,
That way—aye—bein' it's mornin'—
And just, ye know, to see if you're yawnin',
Or the lek o' that; and 'scusable
If you are, you know; but they navar will,
No, not them—no use! no use of ye!
Bless ye! they'll navar take excuse of ye!
Navar! navar! and all the same
You don't want to be slopin'—it's just like a dhrame;
You're greedy of any chance she might come
Back to the window—the way with some—
Back, and back. And you're still as death,
And the honeysuckles seems full of her breath—
And—yes, it is! and—no, it isn'!
She's gone! she's gone! and the sun is risen.
There, there! I couldn' help it, my men—
Aisy then! aisy then!
Well that was Jack and Harry's style,
And lek enough the best of a mile
To the farm, but takin' differin' ways
Reggilar; and Jack'd ha' 'crase
Mostly of Harry, but couldn' hinder
But the two of them meetin' under the winder.
Jack fuss, and Harry to folla—
And Harry more like a dooiney-molla
For Jack, lek helpin' him to woo,
But takin' his turn at the winder too—
Aw, honour bright! but not much, ye see,
To say for himself, this Henery—
Not him—and puzzled, I doubt,
Puzzled enough to hould out
The time that Jack was givin' him—shy,
And hum and hem, and “Aye, woman? aye?”
That was the most she got out of Harry—
Aw, a dacent chap! aw, varry! varry!
But 'lowanced of brain—that's it! that's it!
'Lowanced enough, and navar fit
For the likes of her, that could dance all round him
With the tongue, and altogether confound him—
And—“Aye, woman? aye?” till at last she says—
“It's no use o' churnin' away like this,
And navar no butter.” And—“Come! will ye talk
About Jack?” she says, and he wouldn' baulk
The young woman of coorse. “Very well,” says he,
And on about Jack, and fiddlededee—
And what did he think of Jack? was he right
In his mind, did he think? and rather a flight
Of a craythur—what? and no doubt takin' care—
The way she was spakin'—that Jack would hear—
And Jack nearly choked with the rage—good Lord,
But bitendin' not to hear a word.
And then she'd make her note that sweet
And soft and trimblin'—it was like the tweet
Of a young duck. And—Wasn' he nice
This Jack?—aw dear! and couldn' he tice
The arm off a gel? And—Wasn' he a love?
And wasn' he a darlin'?—and a surt of a shove
With the words, like arrars from the quivers,
Sendin' Jack in the fits of shivers.
And couldn' stand it, poor fellow, of coorse,
And rushin' on Harry, and as hoorse as hoorse,
And whisp'rin', “Look here! the time is up.”
Then says Nessy, “Suppose I want him to stop—
Time, indeed! whose time? bad 'cess!
You're thinkin' a dale of yourself,” she says,
“It's for me, not for you, to tell him to go—
Time did ye say? But I'll have you to know.”
And stoops—and—“Listen, Harry, will ye?
I've got something partikkilar to tell ye.
Jack musn' hear. Be off with ye, Jack,
To the apple-tree, and don't come back
Till I tell ye.” The apple-tree—that was the place
They had to stand, in any case,
When their coortin' was off, just like it would be
Their watch on deck—aye—the apple tree—
Aye, them's Tommy's, Tommy Big-eyeses —
Ter'ble for rimin'—all surts and sizes,
Tommy, bless ye!
But Brew, the father—
It's lek you're thinkin' it curious rather
He was navar hearin' them at these games.
Well, lizzen to me; that man was the same's
A pig for the sleepin' and the snorin'—
See-saw! Margery Daw!
Roarin', borin'—
No starts, no snarts arrim —studdy he done it,
Studdy directly he begun it—
Say about half-past eight or that
Till maybe four in the mornin'—chat!
Yandhar man! you could hear pretty farrish
The snore of him—fit to shake the parish.
So of coorse. But lek enough you'll be sayin'
Boosely music to be playin'
Lek a surt of accomplamink
To the coortin'—and aisy so to think,
Aisy, natheral; but still
People that's coortin', ye see, they will;
And somethin' to know the ould chap's safe—
I'd rather trust him snorin' than deaf,
'Deed I would. But you wouldn' sundher
From the gel you love for the roots of thundher.
But couldn' help laughin' sometimes—pirry us!
Special Harry, that wasn' that sirrious,
Nor that deep like Jack: but often corrected
At this fellow—Her father must be respected
To his very snore, says Jack, as sollum
As avar ye seen a what-d'ye-call-um.
And had they it all to themselves that tune?
What was all the other chaps doin'?
Well, you'll obsarve, it wasn' none
But the miner lads that ever done
The reg'lar sooreyin' that's in,
Lek what they're callin' sooreyin'—
Proper lek—you know the surt—
Them other chaps I was tellin', that dirt
Of shoemakers, and tailors, and jiners
And that, was freckened of the miners,
Reg'lar freckened, and navar dar'd
Show a nose inside of the yard
After the milkin'—no—they dar'n'—
Aw, they're not to be trifled with, miners ar'n'—
You'd batthar belave it! one or two of them
Tried it a bit, but all the crew of them
Jined—these miners down at the Pub,
Members of the “Nessy Club”—
Yis, that's what they were callin' the 'ciety—
And they tuk such urdher, and worked such variety
Of ghoses and goblins, and big bogganes,
Like divils growlin' in their dens,
And groanin' ter'ble behind the fences,
That they freckened these fellas urrov their senses.
So that was all right; and Harry and Jack
Had no more trouble with the lek.
But every one their own troughs—
That was the coortin' of these boughs —
Boughs, ye know—yis, that was the name—
Pushin' each other—a rum surt o' game
To plase a gel; and laughin' that rough—
A passil o' donkeys, sure enough!
But still these two had another plan—
Jack, of coorse, the head man,
And Harry was willin' either way;
But Jack persuaded him to lay
The thing before the cōmmĭtteē
Of the club, and—Couldn' they all agree
That Jack and Harry had the chance,
And let the others go to France,
Or Jericho? And statin' their case—
And “for-as-much,” and “the year of grace”—
And signed and sealed, and made declar'
That Nessy was favourin' them far
Above the other chaps; and so
What was the good for them to go
Any more? and the register at them
To stop at once, and just to let them
Settle it theirselves, whichever
Nessy'd chice, and for him to have her—
Aw, as true as I'm a sinner—
And fair play, and back the winner!
And tuk their davies, bein' as't,
And proposed and seconded, and passed
Umnanermous —and “Do-to-wit,”
And “Amen,” and “So be it”!
Very sollum—makin' motions—
Aw, these miners has their notions.
From that very day there wasn' a sowl
Interferin'; but Jack got foul
Of these tailor-lads and all the rout,
And he wouldn' have them comin' about.
And he went to Brew, and he axed him to act—
“It's puffeck scandalous,” says Jack,
“Puffeck scandalous.”—“And you,
What are you after then?” says Brew—
“Aye, man, aye? if I may make so bould.”
So Jack bucked up to him, and tould
All about it. And—“Bless my life!
And is she goin' to be your wife?
Yours?” says Brew, “engaged, it's lek?
Engaged is it? a purty speck!”
“No,” says Jack, “but goin' to be—
Coortin.”—“Coortin'! fiddlededee!
Botheration! what d'ye say?
You're coortin' reg'lar? Coort away!
But these collaghs that's comin' about the farm
Of an evenin'—bless my sowl! What harm?
Rather company, lek a surt of a cheerin'.”
But Jack was ter'ble perseverin'—
“They're jokin' her,” he says, “and provokin' her,” he says,
“Till she ups and at them out and in,
And gives them the imperince of sin—
And isn' nathral in her—no!
And it's spilin' the gel; and it's boosely show!
And she isn' nice that way a bit,
And it isn' right, and it isn' fit;
And you've got the 'torrity, Masthar Brew,
So give them it! aw do, aw do!”
“'Torrity,” says Brew, “gallivantin'!
I'll 'torrity them, if it's that what you're wantin'.
'Torrity!” and as grim as grim—
So this was the way he 'torritied them.
The very next evenin'—aw, navar fail!
He come upon the street with a flail—
“Clear out of this!” says he, and a slash
Lek every way—“clear out, ye trash!
Clear out!” he says, “ye Skilligalee!
These wayses isn' shuitin' me—
Clear out!” and he made another quiver,
And they cleared that yard pretty quick, however.
Aw yis, I tell ye—and Nessy that white
With the mad, and standin' on her right,
And—“Nice work!” and wouldn' speak
To the father or Jack the best of a week.
But coaxed, did Jack, aw, coaxed her though,
And Harry to help him, and the orchard like snow
That year up yandhar, like snow; you'd see't
The best of a mile—aw, a reg'lar sheet—
Most beautiful. And Lord love ye!
The nice it is to have yandhar above you
And all around you, as you may say—
Apple-blossom in the middle of May.
That's the coortin'! Aw, lave it alone!
The Queen of England upon her throne
Might envy you then. The trees like nets
All knotted over with white rosettes,
Like white ladies standin' theer—
In the spring—of coorse: in the fall of the year
I don't know; but still, for a chice—
But bless ye! an orchard is allis nice:
It's like heaven, I think, and the angels flittin'
From tree to tree, and you to be sittin'
With . . . well, well, well! the Lord can save,
The Lord, the Lord it was that gave,
Gave her, gave her, and tuk her the same,
And blessed be His holy name!
Aisy, lads! it's a finish night—
All right, all right!
So, as I was a sayin'—aye, aye, in the fall
Maybe not so nice; but still the smell
Of the apples—aw dear! they'll do ye! they'll do ye!
Aw, through and through ye! through and through ye!
It's a very lovin' smell is apples—
This stuff the Romans burns in their chapels
Is very sweet! but what is it comparin'
To apples, special goin' a bearin'
In an orchard—all a surt of 'spicion
Of rum things about, like some faery was fishin'
With a smell for a bait—invisible—
Aw, sartinly—but a smell, a smell.
And sure enough the sarpint knew't—
'Deed he did, the ugly brute—
There's no mistake it's that that done
Eve altogether—I mean, begun,
For ate she did, and so did Adam,
But ate she needn'—this tasty madam,
No—but smellin' she couldn' help—
That's where he had her—this divil's whelp,
Had her for sure.
But what a place
That garden must have been! bad 'cess
To them that lost it for us—aye!
And let them boo, and let them cry,
Had to turn out that very minute—
A garden! Why, God was walkin' in it
In the cool of the day, the Bible's tellin'—
Dear me! the grand it must ha' been smellin'!
Talk of gardens! talk of loss!
But what a donkey that Adam was
Hidin' himself aback o' the bushes,
Him and Eve, like a pair of big thrushes,
And only—but bless me! the foolishness!
But loss the place! loss the place!
The garden, aye! the garden of Eden—
But an orchard too—the way we're readin'
About yandhar fruit, and the ter'ble desi'ble
For food and that, but scandlus li'ble
To die if you eat. But the Ballaquine
Had a orchard—aw dear! but—never mind!
There's no doubt but God Himself might ha' walked
In yandhar place, and heard what was talked.
Sooreyin'? yes, sooreyin'!
I'll tell ye what it is, my men—
You don't understand—this gel was gud,
And so was Jack: there's love that's mud,
Not love—I know, I know, Bill Mat,
Ah! no need to tell me o' that!
But love that'll take a gel, and liff her
To the heaven of heavens, that's the differ;
No black disgrace, but pure, man, pure
As the sthrames that gathers in old Ballure—
Why wouldn' God be with the lek?
Walkin', list'nin', I expeck,
Aye, and blessin'—fruits and flowers,
What are they all to the hearts that pours
All their joy and all their love
Into one another? God above!
An honest gel and an honest lad!
Can Thou see them, and not be glad?
Thou sees, Thou knows, Thou loves them—aye!
Every kiss and every sigh,
Every sigh and every kiss,
Even if it's not in Genesis.
Be happy then, my lovin' birds!
God bless true sweethearts! them's the words—
A holier thing, and no mistake in,
He navar made in all His makin'—
True as steel—but don't forget,
God's walkin' in the garden yet!
Queer sooreyin'? you're thinkin', eh?
Well that depends, as one may say,
On who you are, and what you are—
Of coorse! of coorse! my man-o'-war!
There's sarpints in the garden too,
Aw, as common as how-d'ye do!
Yis! and howavar the happy you'll be,
It's well to remember Him that can see
Your very heart, and if it's clane,
He'll make you twice as happy again.
Ter'ble religious I got on the sudden?
Jemmy, ate your own pudden,
Do now, do! it'd be a dale batter;
You don't know much about the matter,
Not much, I think. There was used to be once
A thing they was callin' innocence—
Now then, Jemmy! It's God that picks them,
These lovers, and He stands betwix' them;
Every look, and every breath
Is God's; they're faithful unto death,
Because God is faithful; not thinkin' of Him,
Lek enough, but Him of them
Sartin sure. No saint wasn' Jack,
Nor Nessy ither, lek you'll see in a track—
No! but only the nither'd ha' seen
The other in trouble for the wealth of the Queen;
And if it had happened, I'll tell ye what—
Jack'd ha' cut his throat like a shot,
And Nessy's too—bless ye! outragers!
Hot as fire! so that's the relajers!
Yes, and still this Nessy was tazin' him
Despard though, aw, nearly crazin' him—
And touch-me-not! and sniffs and snuffs,
And sulks and sulks, and huffs and huffs.
And was the Lord betwix' them then?
Aisy! with them? with them, my men?
With them? with them? . . . and what for would' He?
With them! with them! and what for shouldn' He?
With them! with them!—sartinly!
And d---it all! don't talk to me!
D'ye hear?
But lizzen now what will folla—
This Harry was chiced for a dooiney-molla,
Chiced complate; and went with Jack
Every night—aw, he wouldn' be slack!
Givin' up all notion of Nessy,
Aw, aisy-goin' urrov messy!
And made up his mind it wasn' no use,
And dooiney-mollain' like the deuce.
Fuss-rate—ye see the chap
Wasn' worth the smallest scrap
At lovin', no! it was dooiney-mollain'
That he was good for, follain', follain',
Buckin' up, lek what you'd call a—
Well, you know—a dooiney-molla—
That's it—lek semperthisin'
Pirriful —aw, quite surprisin'—
Yis—lek lovin' just to be theer,
Just to lizzen—this Harry Creer—
Aye, and, every kiss that was go'n',
Just to give a little moan
Urrov him, very low and soft,
Or maybe a little bit of a cough
Or the lek; but keepin' as close as close,
That he wouldn' be missin' the smallest ghost
Of a sound or a sigh, and laenin' his chin
On Jack's shouldher, and lizzenin',
Lizzenin'—and his breath goin' pourin'
Agen Jack's ear, and had to be cow'rin'
Rather—stoopin', ye know, for the big
He was compared to Jack; and'd twig
Every little hitch that was clickin',
And Jack's heart that was goin' a tickin'
Like a clock. And Nessy up in the windher,
But none so high; and Jack to meandher
Some dodge to get nearer, to hould her hand
When she'd stretch it down, you'll understand.
And sometimes he'd get a-top of a tub,
Or anything that was handy, a scrub
Of a trammon that was growin' there—
Aw, lave him alone! aw, navar fear!
Bless ye! he was soople was Jack;
And sometimes gettin' on Harry's back,
And standin' on Harry's shouldher, and flingin'
His arms round Nessy's neck, and bringin'
Her face to his in the very middle
Of the honeysuckles—aw then the thriddle
Of thrimblin' that shivered the back of this Harry—
Semperthisin'—bless ye! very—
Semperthisin'—didn' I say?
Semperthisin' anyway.
“Get down!” says Nessy, “don't ye see
That Harry is tired?”—“Not me! not me!”
And just like a mason with his hod,
As stiff—and beggin' for the love of God
They'd go on; and gevvin' a surt of a coo—
“Aw keep it up! aw do! aw do!”
And as strong as a bull, and wouldn' be beat.
But sweethearts can't be allis like that,
With a fellow to lizzen to all they're say'n'—
Bless your sowl! the thing is plain—
Can't: so sometimes Harry had orders
To stand a bit off aback o' some borders,
Or under the biggest apple-tree.
So there this dooiney-molla'd be,
Very patient, but strainin', strainin'
To hear the coortin,' and lek enough rainin',
Or snowin', or blowin'—
Dear me! what's the odds? No knowin'
The happy Harry was, just to be catchin'
The smallest whisper; like a hen when she's hatchin',
Sittin' that quite; but the little sweep
Is liz'nin' too for some sign of a cheep
At one of the eggs—aw, 'deed she is.
And so this Harry; and if he heard a kiss,
Which of coorse he did, and raisonable,
He'd moan the softest he was able—
Like a flute he'd moan, like a flute! surprisin'!
Semperthisin', semperthisin'.
So—very well! very well!
Aye—but now I've got somethin' to tell,
That you'll maybe be wondhrin' the change, d'ye hear!
The change that come on Harry Creer
The aunt—the aunt; aye! that's the woman—
Misthriss Banks, and hemmin' and hummin',
And hintin'—but wait a bit—a wedda
She was, and lived above the medda
At the Ballaquine—a kind of a 'cess
Up there, bein' rather a boosely place;
And the house like these sheds where the herrin's is saltin'
At Derby Haven—a reg'lar thalthin!
Herself and her son was livin' there,
But how she was livin'—well, I'll swear
I don't know, and still I do.
Ye see, he was an aisy man, was Brew;
But he wouldn' have her in the house,
No he wouldn'; and the wuss of his cows
He gave her—and just a bit of a crof'
T' other side of the gill that was wallin' off
From the farm, lek separate, more of a Lhergy
Than anything else. And a chap called Curghey
Was jinin' next to her—Curphey—says Jem—
Curghey and Curphey's all the same—
Miser'ble land, hafe rock, hafe feerins
And the rest of it cushags, and havin' its bearin's
Nor'-west of the Ballaquine. But she didn'
Live on her land, let alone her midden,
Nor the cow; for the cow was starvin' with her,
And the croft it navar got nothin' ither,
No care, nor 'tintion: not much for work
Wasn' Misthriss Banks. If she'd had the Perk
Of Barrule—Llewellyn's? to be sure!
Owned at William Fyne Moor—
She'd ha' been just the same. So how then, how
Was the woman livin'? Don't make a row!
I'll tell ye; the woman was livin' on a pension
From a sartin party we'd best not mention—
She done his work, and she earned his wages,
Aw, that's the terms the ould chap engages—
He's got his grip o' them—touch for touch—
A wutch? Of coorse she was a wutch,
And a black wutch, the wuss that's goin'—
The white is—well, I'm hardly knowin'
Is the lek in: but these ould things
That's sellin' charms to sailors, rings,
Papers, ye know—why, bless my sowl!
Here's one at me —it's middlin' oul',
Wore I don't know the teens of years
On my heart here, look, la! Sally Tear's
The woman that sould it—in Castletown—
Queen Street—aye—and half-a-crown . . .
I 'spose the most of ye's got the lek
Somewhere hung around your neck.
But there's odds of charms; for some is just
A surt of a blessin'; but some is a cuss,
Most bitther, brewed in the very gall
Of spite and hate, and'll creep and crawl
Over your body and over your sowl,
Aye, man! aye! at laste so I'm tould—
And through and through, and makin' you sick,
And makin' you mad—aw, they know the trick!
Cussin' your fingers and cussin' your toes,
Cussin' your mouth and cussin' your nose,
Every odd jint, and every limb,
And all your inside—that's the thrim—
Cussin' your horse and cussin' your cow,
Cussin' the boar and cussin' the sow—
Everything that's got a tail;
Aye, and your spade, and your cart, and your flail,
Plough and harras, stock and crop,
Nets and lines—they'll navar stop—
Treminjis cussin'—charms? yis!
But writin'—no! but spit and hiss
And mutter and mumble—that's your surt!
Rags that's tore from the divil's ould shirt—
He'll claim his own. You'll be passin' by,
And not a word, but the evil eye—
There ye are! you're struck, they've done ye!
They've got ye—you're tuk! they've put it upon ye—
Aw, boosely shockin'! And harbs! they picks them
The right time of the moon, and they'll take and mix them—
I've seen this woman myself goin' pryin'
Under the hedges, and stoopin' and spyin';
And if she seen me, she'd give a gurn
Most horrid at me. Yis, and they'll burn,
And they'll fry and they'll stew, and makin' faces—
What is it they won't do?—Brutes o' bases!
I know their par and I know their mar—
Divils! divils! that's what they are!
And should be tuk and burnt the way
They used to be—by gough, I'll lay
You'd smell the brimstone—you would so—
But no justice now, nor nothin'—no!
Ter'ble changes—takin' and slammin' them
In the Lunertic Asylum—crammin' them
With the best o' good livin', and rates and taxes,
And a doctor, and anything they axes—
At the Sthrang there—aye! and a mortal buildin',
And the money flyin', and carvin' and gildin',
And a fine sittervation, ter'ble airy—
And hip-hooraa for Robby Fairy!
“Down with the taxes!” says Robby, “bad luck with them!”
Taxes! aw, Robby'll have no truck with them.
But the 'sylum wasn' thought of then;
And she wasn' threescore years and ten,
Wasn' Misthriss Banks, nor sixty ither,
But 'stonishin' the way they'll wither—
The lek—aw, a reg'lar flibberty gibberty
Surt of a woman, and liked her liberty,
Aye, and tuk it. And when she was drest
And titervated all in her best,
And her white stockin', and her lastin' slipper,
I tell ye she looked a reg'lar clipper,
Tasty uncommon at Hollantide fair
Or the lek—aw, the tastiest woman there—
Painted, ye know—aw, lips and cheeks,
Like plaster just, lek goin' in streaks,
Like varnish mostly, like polish, like size;
And I don't know what the divil she was doin' to her eyes—
Like a play-acthur. So with all this criss-crosserin'
And dabbin' and grainin' and pink-saucerin',
You'd hardly thought, of the whole bilin',
You got the blackest wutch on the Islan'.
But still we hev it in Revelation
And about the cup of abomination—
And —the blood of the saints—and goin' a dressin'
In a scarlet frock, like a foreign pessin—
A bad lot that—and Jezebel,
Lookin' out at the windher—aw, a despard swell!
And painted her face, and tired her head—
“Fling her down!” this Jehu said—
“Fling her down!” and tuk and swung her—
One—two—“Fling!” aw, by gough they flung her.
Aw, Jehu was mortal boosely though—
You mind the heads there all in a row,
Seventy of them at the gate,
And kings' sons, and lekly as nate
As a pin, and the hair of them just like silk,
And comin' in in the mornin' with the milk—
Aw, Jehu—well, I hav'n' a word
To say—but still—ye see, the Lord—
So lave it alone; but, of a rule,
Them ould kings was middlin' cru'l.
Misthriss Banks! Misthriss Banks!
Aw, a big long woman, thin in the flanks,
That, when she was up to these divil's pranks,
It had ha' took Ould Harry himself to hould her—
High in the hips, and high in the shoulder—
Yes, and I was tellin' just now
The stunnin' she looked, and the when and the how,
And round the Cape, and past Bigode,
And cock her up! and clear the road!
And in on the fair—The Hills? eh, what?
Sartinly! the ould spot.
And rings and rings, and silk and satin,
Aw, as grand as grand! and goin' a traitin'
At the lads, of coorse. But the evenin'
Was another pair of oars, my men.
Screwed? is it screwed? dead drunk, if ye plaze,
Like a bustin' tar-barrel all in a blaze
Of cussin' and blastin', and laughin' and cryin'
And singin'—aw, if you'd only ha' heard her!
And a splash and a mash, and kickin' and lyin'
In a surt of a midden of muck and murder!
Foamin', frothin', splitter-splutter,
Like fits, like possessed—aw, roult in the gutter;
Somethin' lek it's put in the Acts—
I don't azackly remember the facts,
But a woman that shouted, and lek enough whopt to't
At the scamps that kep' her; but Paul put a stop to't.
Not much of a 'sample for Nessy, you'll say—
Well, hardly, hardly anyway.
So that's the raison Brew wouldn' hev her
In the house arrim theer, and tuk and gev her
The thalthan—wouldn' hev her, no!
Wouldn'! wouldn'! wouldn' though!
Did I tell you about the chile she had?
Job he was callin'—a lump of a lad
Them times, but younger till his cousin.
Short was Job—of his body he wasn';
But short of wit—the innercent
Ye navar—that's the way I meant—
Soft, no doubt, aw soft; but grew
A splandid falla; soft, but true
As steel, and gud, and full of grace,
And a beautiful face! a beautiful face!
Aw, the gentle! aw, the sweet!
I tell ye what—you wouldn' meet
The lek of Job on a long day's march—
No you wouldn'—and as straight as a larch—
Lovely made—and the big blue eye,
Aw, fit to make a body cry!
And grew——but that was years and years
Afterwards——avast these tears—
Look at me!——another night
I'll give you Job——all right! all right!
Aw, a ter'ble story——but he wears the robe—
Washed, ah washed! poor Job! poor Job!
But the nither Job nor the mother was gettin'
Admission to Brew's, except she'd be lettin'
In at Nessy on the sly,
When Brew was in bed—aw, she wouldn' be shy
Wouldn' yandhar; but freckened enough
Of Brew that cud be despard rough,
For all the aisy; but freckened though,
Freckened himself—aw, I'd have ye to know!
Freckened thallure; for he knew she could wither
The heart of him into ould shoe-leather,
Or any other divilment—
Witchin', wutchin', wherever she went,
Wutchin' sartin; but kep' it off
With this thalthan, and the cow, and the crof'—
He had her there, and middlin' safe,
He was thinkin'—aye, but didn' hafe
Like the thing; and made up his mind
She shouldn' get in on the Ballaquine,
Her nor her child.
But the woman was fond
Uncommon of Nessy—or was it the bond,
And Nessy in it; unknownst, of coorse,
To herself? but anyway such a foorce
She done of charms there, early and late,
That she put the comedher on Nessy complate.
Clane comedher, harpooned, and haulin' it—
Fascernation the Pazon was callin' it—
Fascernation—and might have been—
“Kayar! kayar!” says ould M`Queen,
“That'll bring her up”—and maybe it will:
Tremenjers though, aw terrible!
Kayar, for the strong it was houldin' the gel,
And spun from nothin' but the wind of hell—
That's the Kayar! and wasn' it a pity?
Poor thing! the sweet and the pretty,
And the lovin' too, and a d---ould cat
To have her in her power like that!
So she tuk a notion of a surt of suppoortin'
Nessy, like a shuperintendin' the coortin',
Lek backin', lek watchin', lek a kind of encouragin';
And waitin' till dark, and goin' a furragin'
About the house; and creep and creep—
And aisy to tell if Brew was asleep
With the snorin', bless ye! And—“Come in! come in!”
And whisperin' and whisperin';
And a bit of supper: and then Nessy'd say
“Time for bed”—and—“Let me stay!
Aw, let me! let me!” And only right—
And her aunt and all—and “Good-night! good-night!”
At Nessy. Aw, then she'd dart in her ear
Most despard cusses—navar fear!
And tellin' the charms she had on Jack—
She could turn ev'ry bit of his body black—
She could make him hate her—poor Nessy Brew!
Nothin' she couldn' and wouldn' do!
And the gel, you know, as freckened as freckened,
Because of coorse she navar reckoned
But Misthriss Banks could do the jeel
She was braggin' she could, and she'd take and kneel
On her bended knees, and she'd cuss—the baste!
Cuss the very skin off your face—
But low, very low, that Brew wouldn' wake—
A surt of a spittin' like this new kind of brake
They've got on the railways—air brake, is it?
The dirty thing, goin' fizzit! fizzit!
And spittin' there. So up to the room!
She should ha' been cocked on a lump of a broom
Sky-high—the ould Turk!
And then the comedher'd begin to work;
And she'd coax, and she'd clapse, and she'd play the deuce,
Till the poor thing was gettin' all a confuse,
Lek foolish lek; and she'd kiss and she'd cuddle,
Till Nessy's head'd be all in a muddle—
Swimmin lek, lek heavy—aye!
And when Jack'd appear, poor Nessy'd sigh,
And come to the window. But the wutch'd be lookin'
Over her shouldher—and crouchin' and crookin'—
All eyes and ears—but the hitch on the tongue,
Lek the ould moon keekin' behind the young,
You know—and the little thing middlin' shy
To step out there in the big broad sky
Before all the stars—like a panerrammer,
Mostly. But the ould one—damn her!
She's up to no good that ever I knew,
At least for the likes of me and you.
But—wutches in front, dooiney-mollas aback—
What surt of coortin' was that for Jack?
No coortin' at all. And bore it wanst,
And bore it twicet; and then he danced
With ragin' fury—Such dirt goin' muckin'
About the gel, he said, and suckin',
Yes, he said, suckin' her blood,
Like a spider a fly, or makin' crud
Of it altogether; and where would it stop?
Drainin' her heart to the last drop—
Quite aisy to see—the gel gettin' white
Most pitiful—a reg'lar blight
On the gel, he said. He could feel her drawin'
Back and back, lek some divil was clawin'
And pullin' her theer, and furder and furder,
Lek innards someway, lek some hole of murder
They were haulin' her into: yis, and lavin'
Just a shape, lek a surt of a graven
Image of Nessy at the windher,
And herself goin' burnin' into tindher,
In some place at these divils—aye tuk and hove her
In a pit, and roullin' her over and over
On coals of fire—and hotter and hotter—
Yis, yis, yis—and where had they got her?
That wasn' Nessy—and he'd hev his revenge
And he'd stop this work, and this wutch should senge
In the deepest of hell herself. And he spoke
Middlin' plain; and it wasn' no joke
For him, he said, nor for Nessy, he said:
And—“Go home with ye! go! go home to bed!
Who's wantin' ye here—with your skinny throat?
You're a big black wutch, and I'd have ye to know't.”
So the Banks to go and Jack to stay.
But the coortin' was bruk at them anyway,
That night at least; for the aunt was gone
Like whisked through the keyhole; but Nessy was done,
Done complate, and trimblin' theer
Most awful. And—“Darlin'!” and “Navar fear!”
At Jack; but no use, and tuk and crept
Back in her bed, but never slept,
And worked at this wutch like the say is workin'
With a tidesway, and all her body jerkin'
And tossin' like a fever; and oh!
What would she do? And she'd go, she'd go
First thing in the mornin', she muss! she muss!
And coax her that she wouldn' cuss
This Jack. But still the gel was fearin'
The cuss'd be done afore daylight appearin'—
Burnin' somethin', or raisin' the divil,
Or God knows what. And why wasn' he civil?
Civil, just civil! Aw Jack then! Jack then!
The pity! And—Would she call him back then?
Back! back! back! And jumps to the windher—
But Jack was gone. “He'll be burned to a cindher,”
Says Nessy—poor sowl! You see, she knew
The despard things these wutches can do
On all your body—aw, horrid they can!
Horrid, I tell ye. But that was the plan,
For Jack was for bustin' in the door,
No matter whether Brew to snore
Or not to snore. “Who knows if she's dyin'?”
And even to think of her theer a lyin'!
God bless him! And he made a run, but caught
At Harry straight, that said he thought
They'd better make haste, you know, and give sheet
After this wutch. And over the street,
And over the hedges and over the ditches,
And away for the Gill, but Harry got stitches
In his side or the lek, and puffin' and pantin',
And couldn' hould on, and began a slantin'
For the road, bein' middlin' freckened she'd come
In some shape or another, like a corpse, by gum!
Or a modda-doo, goin' bawwawin',
Or a tarroo-ushtey, or a muck-awin,
Or—“Stop!” he says, “aw, stop then! stop!”
And—Bless his sowl! he was like to drop;
And a cow gave a cough—aw, Harry roared,
And Harry screeched, and Harry implored,
And Jack that bothered he had to give in;
And the two of them home with a safe skin
To Harry's lodgin', and slept together,
But beat, and feelin' foolish rather.
The day was hardly bruk when Nessy
Was up to the Gill, and beggin' for messy,
And for all the sakes! and what she would give her;
And couldn' they be as thick as ever?
And Jack was onpatient, but Jack was gud;
And she'd give her anything! yes, she wud!
She'd give her her brooch and her beautiful pin,
And her clasp, and the rael gool sovereign
She got in her box, and a velvet belt
That was speckled with flowers, and the buckle gilt
Most lovely—aye! poor thing! poor thing!
And ribbons and scarfs! “Will you give me the ring
You've got on your finger then?” says the aunt—
Her mother's weddin'-ring she meant—
“Will you give me that?” Then Nessy shook
All over, and she gave a look
At the woman, and aw, the pitiful!
And then at the ring, and begun to pull,
And stopped, and pulled, and stopped again,
And the tears come pourin' down like rain;
And she snuggled her hand agin her breast,
And kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed—
The ring, of coorse, and looks up at the aunt,
And just a whisper—“I can't! I can't!—
I seen him take it . . . take it,” she said,
“From her finger . . . —and the straight in the bed . . .
And the cowld, auntie, the cowld! the cowld! . . .”
And the poor gel shivered. But the aunt to rowl
Her eyes like wheels, and her body stretched
To the full of her height, and tuk and retched
All over the child, till she fell right down,
Like stiff, like dead—aw, then I'll be bound
She had her up and in her lap,
And hushee bowbabbied, and on the tree-top,
In a minute—aye, and stooped lek to cover her,
And sthrooghin' her theer, and breathin' over her
The wutches breath, and hummin' charms
In her ear; and all the strain of her arms,
And the warmth, and the squeeze, and the curl, and the ply
Of all her body, till Nessy to sigh,
And Nessy to move. And then . . . and then . . .
She'd got another plan, my men.
“Aw no!” she said, “well no then! no!
Aw, not the ring! but . . . lizzen though!
Lizzen . . . the key of the ould man's chist”
(Her father) . . . “five pound wouldn' be missed
Urrov yandhar lot.” . . . Could she get the key?
And . . . sometime he'd be out of the way . . .
What? Aw, Nessy gave a spring,
And “Take it! take it! take the ring!
For God's sake! take it! take it! take it!
Here! here! will that do? will that make it
All right?” she says; “you'll not wutch him—
Jack, you won't?”—“I'll never touch him,”
Says Mrs. Banks; and she'd come next night
For the other things. So Nessy tuk flight
Like a partridge: and—“She driv me! she driv me!”
And “Mother! mother! forgive me! forgive me!”
Poor Nessy! and all the way she was goin'
She was sighin' and sobbin' and makin' her moan—
“This is love!” she said, “and the nice it'd be
If it wasn' for the misery!”
And I'll tell ye what, the gel had raison,
She had, aw yes! for it's just amazin'
The work that's with it. But still for all
Who'd be without it? to stand or to fall,
The sweet with the bitter! But the poor young things,
That's feelin' love like birds feels wings,
And ups like the lark, and love to crown them
With joy, and the sun all round and round them—
And then comes hail and frost and snow,
And the thunders rowl, and the winds they blow—
Aw dear, the poor birds! It's better, you'd think,
To have nothin' to do with it? Chink-chink-chink!
Chunk-chunk-chunk! Well, of coorse ye needn':
Bless ye! there's different sorts of feedin'—
Pigs isn' larks, not them; and still
Pigs is very comfible—
Jine the pigs! it's the easiest way,
Shove your snout in the trough, and suck away!
Now Nessy had ha' done much batthar
If she'd ha' come and tould the matthar
To me. For I was young, that's true,
But still I was gran' for advisin': there's few
Could ha' beat me, no! And of coorse I'd ha' gone
And tould the Pazon, and the thing had been done
At once—God bless ye! sartinly!
The Pazon! done? my goodness me!
But I suppose I was too young
For a gel like her to have took and brung
Her sorrow to—it was years and years,
After all her hopes and all her fears
Was settled lek, she was tellin' me,
Aw, no mistake, and as free as free—
Tellin'—bless ye! tellin' uncommon—
Aw, I knew the woman! I knew the woman!
Jack? well . . . Jack . . . go tellin' him?
Not her! not her! This despard limb
Was no good for advisin'—lovin', yes—
But that's another sort of guess—
Lovin'—and dooiney-mollain' too—
Well, you see, it'd hardly do—
It's not what they're for, being wanted to praise
A chap to his sweetheart—let them keep their place
These dooiney-mollas, not 'visin' her—
Lek I tould ye, eh? that's not what they're fur.
And as for Harry—Harry advisin'?
Bless ye! Harry was stupid supprisin'.
No, it was me—aw, never fear!
But still it couldn' be; so . . . theer!
And did she come down in the evenin'
For the rest of the things? Aye did she then,
And had them too, most sartinly,
And as good as money, and away on the spree
To Ramsey, and not a public-house
Goin' or comin' that this boosely throuss
Didn' have her dhrop. So Crow,
That was drivin' the coach, he found her though
Next mornin' at King Orry's grave,
Drunk as a fish, and tuk and gave
Her a tip with his whip, and waked her up—
Aw, fond of a sup! fond of a sup!
But she kept her word though—curious!
Not the smallest taste of a cuss
Done on Jack, by night or by day;
But she worked the job another way—
'Deed she did though, worked it gran'—
Bless ye! Harry was her man.
Sent for Harry to come and see her,
Which he went, but in ter'ble fear,
Aw, mortal uncommon! But—“Come in!” she says,
“And a cup of tay; and nice it is
To see a friend,” and all to that —
And Harry lookin' hard at the cat,
And all about, and wondherin'
Where was she keepin' the rum and the gin,
And her dirts and her divilments—in crocks,
Harry was thinkin', or—was it a box?
Or bladders was it? or under her clothes,
Or hid in the floor, or goodness knows!
Up the chimley lek enough,
And'd come to take him by the scruff,
All of a sudden, as black as ink—
The divil—aye—didn' know what to think.
But the place was swept, you know, and clane,
And the taypot singin', and pinjane —
And the kettle you might have seen your face in't,
And everything as dacent as dacent—
Till Harry took heart, and eat like a melya,
Made a very good tay, I tell ye.
And they talked of the croft, and they talked of the garden,
And they talked of her son, that was only herdin'
Yet, she said; but she hoped he'd soon
Have a job at the mines, and then he'd be do'n'—
At an engine, perhaps, but hard to tell,
And the cows was shuitin' him very well,
And away on the mountains mostly he was,
Herdin' for Clague's of the Ballacross,
And only home at odds of time,
Just that Clague would take and try'm—
And a child, you know, and couldn' expec',
And rather weak in his interlec'.
But not so bad. “But, Harry Creer,
How is it there's some not far from here
That's got pluck and wit, and all the rest,
And handsome chaps, and a match for the best,
And still they don't see it? Plenty of sanse
And everything . . . and don't see their chance,
Don't see it . . . but there's some that does,
Sees it plain does some of us.”
And then she set upon him, and—Who
Was this Jack Pentreath? and Nessy Brew!
Bless her sowl then! was he blind?
Nessy at the Ballaquine!
Nessy . . . cravin' for him! Jack?
Nonsense! nonsense! just a pack
Of stuff and nonsense, a trick, a dodge
To get to be with Harry—fudge!
Make a fool of him? No, she wudn',
But worshippin' the ground he stood on.
Aw, she worked him well, till the chap was gapin'
With his mouth like an oyster, the way she was shapin'
The fool to her plan. “By gough!” says Harry,
“I'll try it this night, and aisy—very—
To try”—and Sartinly! that's it!
Buck up! buck up a bit!
And he'd soon see. And that little black imp
To be coortin' Nessy! a surt of a shrimp
Of a cockcroach coortin' Nessy! No!
And—he-he-he! and ho-ho-ho!
“It's you, Harry, idikkilis!
And the handsome ye are! and give me a kiss—
There now, Harry! and spake to him, will ye!
Spake to him! spake to him, m'gilya!”
Poor Harry! aw, kissed her fair and fit,
But wiped his mouth, and gave a spit
When he got outside, bein' freckened, poor chap!
What pison'd come from the divil's trap
Of a mouth, that wasn' a bad mouth ither—
Not ugly, I mean, but well-looked rather.
So that night no wutch; but Nessy like chalk,
And Harry first goin' up the walk;
And—“Wait!” he says to Jack, “just wait!
You see, I've been thinkin' a dale of late,
And I don't know azackly, but still I'm wantin'
To have a understandin' or sonthin' —
A understandin'—that's the tee,
A understandin' is it you, is it me.
I'm not for no more dooiney-mollerin',
I've had enough of humbuggin' and follerin';
And I've raison to think—for I've heard at them
That knows—that Nessy is . . . well . . . ahem . . .
Gettin' rather fond—” “Of you?”
Says Jack; “all right! that'll do! that'll do!”
And darts to the windher, and just a word
To Nessy, that maybe hardly heard
What was it he said, the treih she was,
Poor thing! and turns, and gives a toss
With his head. “Now then,” he says, “now then!
I've said good-night: down glen! down glen!
This must be looked to.” And the fiery he spoke
Poor Harry seen it wasn' no joke,
And had to go. And directly they come
Upon the road—aw, sword and drum!
At it! at it! tongue, not fisses—
Jack's tongue mostly; and “I insisses,”
Says Jack, “you'll 'splain the for and the how,
And what the deuce you're meanin'—now,
Now,” he says, “go on!” But he didn'
Wait for Harry. “Turn up the midden!
Turn it up!” he says; but he turned
The midden up hisself. And he girned,
And he stamped, and he called him all the names
That ever was called. And—Fire and flames!
What was this? And—Was he mad?
Or what was he? Was it a divil he had?
Possessed? was that it? limb from limb!
Nessy gettin' fond of him!
And—Aw, the fool! and aw, the ungrateful!
And—Aw, the donkey! and aw, the decateful!
And—Aw, the horrid! and aw, the hateful!
“Me that was lettin' ye come spoortin'
Under the shadder of my coortin'!
Me that was lettin' ye see the white
She was in the moon! and standin' quite
Near, near! Didn' I let ye?
And feelin' her breath—and didn' I set ye
To spake to her too? and what could ye spake?
And warn't ye hangin' on my neck,
And her face agin mine, and smellin', smellin'
Love's very flower, and hearin' me tellin'
The deepest saycrets of my heart?
And never to stir and never to start,
And never to make the smallest objection,
But delighted, ye said, to see the affection,
And the sweet soft coo there was in, ye said,
It was music fit to wake the dead—
And never tired, and tit for tat,
And purrin' there like a big tom-cat
The satisfied! But now I see!
Is it you? or is it me?
Listen then, if you want to know!
It's me, you thund'rin' lump of dough!
You ideit!” and on like crazy.
But Harry could only get in an “Aisy!”
Now and then—“Aisy!” he'd say,
“Aisy for all!” lek a sort of a way
To be hum'rin' the chap. And hotter and hotter!
Till Harry must ha' been made of botter,
Or porridge or somethin', if he could have bore
The jaw any longer. And at last he swore
He wouldn' stand it, and took and gript
This Jack, that ducked, and dipt, and slipt,
And quivered, and danced; but couldn' hould him:
And Jack made a run for Harry, and bowled him
Over like a cock, and on to him,
And kep' him under, that was aisy done to him,
Bein' heavy, and Jack like a bull pup,
And pinned him, and wouldn' let him up
Till Harry would ax. And then they stood
The two of them out of breath: and the blood
From Harry's nose, lek after an action
Two ships. And “You'll give me satisfaction,”
Says Harry—“eh?” And—the where and the when,
And the how. “At the mouth of the Dragon's den,”
Says Jack; “let's see which'll put the other
Down the ould pit, and finish this bother.
For you know d--- well whichever'll lose
That bout,” says Jack, “he'll have a long snooze
Down there, he will. Now then, d'ye see!
It's death! it's death 'twixt you and me!
Will you try the fall, my bloomin' boss?
Hands on it, Harry!” So it's hands it was.
The very next night no coortin' in —
No, and Nessy wondherin'—
And no sooner they were off their shiff
Than the two of them there to climb the cliff
Under the Dragon's den, that was high
Up the mountain, and not very nigh
To the new workin's—a lonely place,
And savage, if there ever was—
An ould shaft they'd worked out
Long ago, and nothin' about,
No timb'rin' nor the lek, just a hole,
And fifty fathom—no, not coal,
Lead, lead, like all these mines,
And worked accordin' to the finds.
And when they're findin' nothin' more,
They never don't do nothin' to her
To make her safe, no more till a quarry—
So that was the spot for Jack and Harry.
They were at it still when I come down
From the side of Snaefell, and I'll be bound—
Me? yes, me; from Sulby over,
Sulby Claddagh—Tommy Red-clover,
They were callin' the chap, and married that day,
And axed to the weddin', and couldn' stay,
And the sober amazin'. So on and on,
Souljerin' lek, and thinkin' the fun
I was leavin' behind, till I come in my cruisin'
Where the Northside gels is puttin' their shoes on
When they're goin' to Laxey fair—
Till they get up yandhar, aw, bless ye! as bare
As an egg; but there—aw, I've seen them arrit
Afore now, aw, I have! and some like a carrot
That red, and others like white stone
The smooth and the shiny—but—lave it alone!
Comin', I tell ye, and the sun was set,
And the moon was rose, but hidin' yet
Aback o' Slieu Lhean, that was throwin' a shaddhar
Ter'ble black below me. The Laddhar
They're callin' that slope. And I had to steer
Middlin' careful, you know, to clear
The Dragon's den. So—no humbuggin'!
I thought I heard a despard tuggin',
No thrashin', no smashin', no click o' the clogs,
No trampin' like bulls, no raggin' like dogs,
But ugh-ugh-ugh, like the chaps is goin'
When they're workin' a blast-hole—it's lekly you're knowin'—
Ugh-ugh-ugh—I didn' lek it,
I tell ye, at all—how could you expeck it?
How did I know that it wasn' bogganes,
That's after takin' up these glens,
Or the ould chap himself with some of his friends
Agate of their shindies—aw, might have been,
Might! But I crep' a bit nearer, and seen
There was two of them arrit; and the nearer I crep'—
Harry! Jack!
Aw, at them I lep',
At them! on them! “Divils! divils!
What's this? what's this?” But they turned like swivels,
And the bank was givin' way, and the muck
Rattlin' down, the way its shook
On a coffin at a funeral—
And the two of them twisted like a ball—
Couldn' get them out of grips,
Couldn'—and Jack to stagger, and slips,
And Harry swings him out right over
The mouth of the pit, and could hardly recover
Hisself; but held on—aw, didn' let go!
Wouldn' ha' done it—no, no, no!
Couldn', for the matter of that;
For Jack was stuck to him like a rat
To a terrier's nose. So I seen my chance,
And I gript this Harry—“Now then, once—
Twice—three times!” I said, and these rips
Come in on the grass, but still in grips.
And I couldn' have done it, but Harry helped,
And glad enough. Aw, navar was whelped,
A good-natureder chap! But done they were,
Done complate, aw, done I'll swear—
Not the half of a breath in the two of them.
So the moon come up, and I took a view of them—
“Well you're a pair of beauties!” I says;
“Come! drop these grips! I tell ye you'd best!”
But they couldn', no! they could only lie
In each other's arms.
And Jack gave a sigh,
And so did Harry: but I got some water,
And I slished it on them. And Jack held tauter
Till Harry; but at last they were sundhered,
And you'll aisy suppose it's me that wondhered
What divil's work they'd had in hand;
And, as soon as ever they could stand,
I made the two of them look down
The shaft; and they seen it lighted round
Very clear with the moon, that was shinin' brave
And full by now—“If you're wantin' a grave,
You'd batthar spake to the Clerk,” I says,
“And get a comfortabler place
Than that,” says I; “it's like a well
Dug down to the deepest depths of hell.”
And it really looked most horrible,
The black and the deep! And Jack to shudder,
And turn away; and Harry's rudder
Not over studdy, but aised, it's lek,
Aised in his mind.
“And now be quick,
And on with your clothes!” For the chaps was bare
To the very buff—aw, 'deed they were!
And the moonlight shinin' on their skin—
These naked divils—astonishin'!
“On with your boots and your clothes!” Aw, the one of them
Wouldn' resist! aw, I took the command of them
Fuss-rate, I tell ye, uncommon though!
They were both that wake and 'zausted, ye know;
And had to give in.
But Jack was mad,
And wouldn' spake, like sulks he had—
Sullen, sulky. But Harry, so soon
As he got his wind in a bit, was in tune
For a talk, and talked, and tould me the row,
And he said they'd been at it from seven till now;
And what time would that be? And I looked at my watch—
The best of two hours!—“Why murder's a patch
To divils like you,” I says. “I doubt
It was swingin' in and swingin' out
All the time,” says Harry, “wheelin'
Like a windmill,” says Harry, “toein'-and-heelin',
Despard!” he said. And him to be houlin'
Jack right over, and rowlin' and rowlin',
But wouldn' dhrop him—no! but try'n'
To haul him back from the mouth of the mine.
But he'd stick his feet agin the bank,
And stiffen his body like a plank
(“I see ye,” I says), and clitch and clutch,
And all along of a dirty wutch.
“A dirty wutch! what's that you say?”
(Jack spoke at last). “Round turn and belay!”
Says I to Harry: “hould on at that!
That's somethin' like business—I know the cat!
Now,” I says, “let's hear it, my son!”
Which immadient Harry done.
Says he—“She tould me that Nessy Brew
Was lovin' me far more than you.”
Jack danced, Jack danced—half joy, half rage,
Clasps Harry round the neck, I'll engage,
Like the hangman's hug, and cried and cried,
And kissed him, first on the one side,
And then on the other, as quick as a treadle—
And Harry's big face as round as a griddle,
And the wondhrin' there! “I see it! I see it!”
Says Jack, “of coorse!” And a scream like a pewhit;
And—the divil might give her a longish tether,
But blow him! he'd be even with her.
Well, I got them down to the washin' floors
Very friendly; and then these cures
Begun a schaemin' what would they plan—
And—Would they try the Ballawhane?
And axin' me. “Aw, that's no use
At all,” I says: “it's the very deuce,”
I says, “this wutchin'—the horriderse goin',
Black, yes, black.” But sure they were knowin'
The Ballawhane was workin' the white?
“Aw, diff'rin', bless ye! diff'rin' quite!
Lek cows and that—and gives you some sperrit,
Or harbs in a bottle; and as soon as you'll gerrit
In your fiss, the baste, that's very lekly
Miles away, is batthar toreckly.
Aw, I've seen the ould chap, and the big book
And the wise he'll talk, and the sollum he'll look—
Aw, diff'rin', aw, that's understood—
Aw, doin' good, doin' good!
Aw, bless ye! the Ballawhane to wutch her!
Goodness grayshers! he couldn' touch her!
Wutchin' a wutch! aw, there's no sanse,
Sartinly not! Now, a little expanse,”
I says, “and you'll do her; yes, you will!
Do her as nice as pozzible—
Ned Kissack's gun—I know he'd lend her—
Now then,” I says, “what's goin' to hender
But we'll make a silver bullet for her—
A silver bullet—there you've gorrer!
Melt some shillin's—that's the way!
'Spansive? yes, but bound to pay!
That's your surt! Now, let's go spy'n'
The hedges on the Ballaquine,
And along to the Gill; and see if a hare
Or the lek is often takin' there—
The wutch—as sure as eggs is eggs,
Fire at her legs! fire at her legs!
And she'll disappear: but lo and behould!
Up to the Gill! and—Makin' so bould,
How are ye, Mrs. Banks, this mornin'?
Aw, limpin'! aw, I give you warnin'!
Limpin'! of coorse—or a surt of a hop—
Limpin', aye limpin' all over the shop.
A silver bullet—eh? Jack, my hearty!
That's the way to fix the party.”
So we settled to try, and I down with my shillin',
Lek, contributin'—aw, puffeck willin'!
Contributin'—lek these meetin's they've got,
And golly ” this! and golly that!—
Missionaries—and round with the hat—
'Cited rather—and who would blame?
And longin' to be at the game.
“But,” says Harry, “wutchin', I'll allow;
But me or Jack?”—“It's Nessy now,
Nessy,” I says; “aw that's the warp
She's agate of now; so you'd batthar look sharp.”
So we got the shillin's, and we got the gun,
And we got a mould, and tuk and run
A bullet as big as a hymenanny,
Fit to dhrop the divil's granny.
And started a hare the first thing;
And Jack let dhrive, and she made a spring,
And away in the goss. “Hit! hit!” says I,
“Hit in the thigh! hit in the thigh!”
And up to the Gill the way we planned;
And there was Mrs. Banks as grand
As grand. And—“What procures me the honour
Of this visit?” A reg'lar Primer Donner—
Aw, it's her that could. And “We want no talk,”
Says Jack, “but just let's see you walk.”
Aw, she up and made a run at us,
And we cut like the mischief; and she gave a cuss;
And then she laughed like fit to split—
“She was never hit! she was never hit!”
Says Jack. “No! no!” says I, “I'll swear
There's no mistake you hit the hare.
But that ould caillagh dhu! what nex'!
Treminjis wutchin', xxx!”
And right I was; for there's wutches in
That actual don't care a pin
Not even for a silver bullet.
It's lek they've got an art to pull it
Aslant some way—aw, black as tar!
Black! black! black! so there you are!
And was the coortin' over and done?
No, but, the winter comin' on,
It had to be in the house, you see;
And the dooiney-molla for company
For ould Brew, that liked him well—
This Harry. And sometimes they'd take a spell
At the paper they got, the Sun, or the Times,
Or Mona's Harral —latthars, rhymes,
Speeches—not much odds to them
What they had. And the ould chap's hem!
Ahem! dear me! and rubbin' and rubbin'
His specks; and the two of them goin' a clubbin'
Their heads together; but couldn' make much of it—
Ould Brew, it's lek, could make some surt of Dutch of it;
But Harry could only scratch his nut—
Didn' know B from a bull's foot.
And—“Can you see it, Harry?” and Harry pretendin',
And hadn' azackly got his hand in,
No—and another rub on his sleeve
At Brew, and eyein', and what to believe?
And—was Harry humbuggin'? and 'spicious rather;
And then he'd dhrop it altogether.
But Harry could look, and Harry could smook,
Aw, bless ye! company for a duke
Was Harry—fuss-rate! He'd a trick of spittin'
He larned of me, thought nothin' of hittin'
A fly on the wall, or a spark in the chimbley,
Any distance you like, the nimbly
You never saw. And the buzz and the bizz
And the 'twixt his teeth, and the fo'ce and the fizz
Like fireworks mostly; and his mouth like a flute,
All to make the puffeck skute —
For a chap from Dalby that way—eh?
You'd hardly think now—what did ye say?
Learnt from me? But a splendid scholar,
Aw, bless ye! baetin' his masthar holler—
Yes, he did, aw, beat complately—
Beat; and amusin' the old man greatly.
“Hit the rose on the side of that mug!”
Or “Spit through the handle of yandhar jug
On the dresser there!” or “Make a ring
Round yandhar cup!” He'd do the thing,
Would Harry, five times out of six.
But Nessy didn' like such tricks;
And she'd say—“Now what are ye after there?
Behave, behave now, Henry Creer!”
And Harry to look a bit to one side,
And Brew to laugh till he fairly cried.
“What's the use o' talkin'! chat!
Jack couldn' do that! Jack couldn' do that,”
The ould man would say, and “I hope he cudn',”
Nessy would say, “and I hope he wudn'.
And even if so be it's allowed of,
It's nothin' to be so very proud of;
No!” and she wasn' takin' the huff!
And some people's manners was middlin' rough.
I believe in my heart the poor gel was ailin'
All over some way, like a surt of a failin',
Yes, even her temper a little touched—
Wutched?—did ye say, of coorse she was wutched.
And wutched bad; why, a sweeter gel
Or a gennaler never bruk the shell.
Nat'ral lovin', nat'ral wishin'
To be kind, aw, a beautiful dispogition.
But now she was often quick and cross,
Sharp and short lek—no, not sauce,
Not that! not that! but lek she'd been goin'
Awakin' up sudden, and hardly knowin'
Where was she at all; and the white her face!
And when Jack was puttin' his arm round her waist,
She'd start like needles runnin' through her,
And away from him, and get to the door,
And look out, and come back, and her eyes to stare
Like seein' somethin' that wasn' there—
Despard uncomfible! aw, despard!
But special for Jack; for, if he whispered
In her ear—the way they will,
Lovers—or squeezed her hand a lill
(And all in raison), she looked that scar'd
And that freckened, or else that stiff and that hard,
That Jack was nearly out of his mind.
And Brew would see, and pretend to be plyin'
His spells—just some of their little tiffs,
Thinks Brew, and drops the paper, and sniffs;
And “Good-night!” he'd say, and “'Deed I've read
Till I'm tired urrov-massy,” and off to bed—
“They'll be makin' it up all right,” thinks Brew,
“When they're left to theirselves.” But wouldn' do.
For Harry would fall asleep, the baste,
And a big slop of a smile all over his face,
And snore like the roots of ragin' thundher;
And Nessy vexed, and 'deed no wondher;
That was used of the ould man's hollabaloo,
But didn' like Harry's. And “I'll go too,”
She'd say; and the loud this Harry roort
It raelly wasn' fit to coort—
You know the ter'ble distressin' it is.
So Jack to get some surt of a kiss,
Very skim-milky, very cowld!
And wakes up Harry, and off, poor sowl!
But the wuss of this wutch was Nessy was fond of her,
For of coorse she was gettin' the upper hand of her
With the wutchin'. But that wasn' all, not a bit!
Fascernatin', is that it?
Aw, you may call it any name,
Comedher, 'tractin', all the same.
You see, she was used of her from a chile.
And, by gough, the woman had a style
That was off the common, knowin' hapes
Of sin, I doubt; and been in scrapes
And scrapes, it's lek. But a surt of a flash with her,
And a cut, and a never-say-die, and a dash with her,
That was seemin' grand to a country gel
Like Nessy, aye. And the stories she'd tell,
Dear me! and the 'sperience she had,
And the riddles and witty things that she said.
And Nessy, ye see, that innocent,
She didn' twig the divilment—
Muck, man, muck, goin' mixed with spice.
But divilment, no matter the nice,
Like some of these flowers you'll feed your eyes on,
Feed your belly?—look out for pizon.
A bad stick! a bad stick!
But ter'ble bright; and'd give a slick
Of a polish lek to all her stuff,
And knew who she had, and'd hould her luff,
Manœuverin' accordintly:
The woman was fuss-rate company—
That's the words—not mine; no! no!
Me? in a woman? High or low,
Young or ould—I beg to state it—
The lek of yandhar I hate it, I hate it!
Fast she was—aw, botheration!
She'd been in England in a sitchuation,
Lady's maid, or something o' the surt—
They're pickin' up a dale of dirt
And mischief is them, aw, I'll be bail!
And draggin' it behind their tail,
When they're comin' back to the Isle of Man—
Aw, bless ye! I know them, I know them: bad scran
To the lek, says I. They're callin' it life:
But a gel that's to make an honest wife
For an honest man, for a chap that's worth,
He'd better give them a wide berth.
But of coorse she was seemin' a ter'ble swell
To Nessy, pretendin' to feel with the gel,
Understandin' all that was at her
In her very sowl; and chitter-chatter
About lovers and love. Aw, Nessy thought
It was beautiful! and the way she brought
Everything to the one stress,
Like floodin' her heart with happiness.
And the poethry! aw dear, the nice!
And could sing-aw, bless ye! a fine deep vice.
And whatever she said, or whatever she sung,
Had it at the tip of her tongue.
Now Nessy was a gel that had got
A good head on her shouldhers, whether or not.
She was puttin' very pretty talk urrov her;
But thinkin' her aunt was nobbier far
Till her; lek much more spicier;
Lek up-to-the-rigs. And, you never can tell,
There's a bit of the divil in every gel—
Aw, there's no mistake they've gorrit,
Yes, they have, and bless them for it!
But that drunken ould brute? Now aisy! aisy!
I know she wasn' azackly a daisy
Of the field, this ould skunk;
But still she wasn' always drunk.
And these flighty people'll have a go with them,
Bless my sowl! a kind of glow with them,
Like fine ould rum or somethin', is it?
Stirs you up, warms your gizzit —
Potes is like that, and fiddlers is,
Play-acthors, singers, circusis—
They'll put a pinch of somethin' tasty
In coortin' and everything—don't be hasty!
Fond of liquor! I don't deny it—
Special when they haven' to buy it—
Poor sowls!
But how could Nessy be longin'
For the woman that—There you go ding-dongin'!
Who talked of longin'? But the cruel she traited her
About the ring, you'd think she'd ha' hated her.
Well lerrit be wutchin', if you choose,
And nothin' but wutchin'—I don't refuse.
But maybe there's curiouser wrinkles
Till wutching even, my pennywinkles!
But drop it! drop it!
Now Jack was a caution!
What d'ye think! he tuk a notion
He'd have the law of her! “Isn' there laws
Agin wutches?” says Jack, “I'll trim her claws;
I'll go and see Kinley aburrit at once.”
He might as well have gone to France.
Says Kinley—“Do you think I'm a d---d fool?”
Says Jack, “Well, no, sir, not of a rule—
But isn' it law for a wutch to be rowlin'
Down a brew in a barrel, and bumpin' and bowlin'
Over the rocks, and nails that teases
And rags and cuts her all to pieces—
Pintin' innards? Lek they done at Slieu Whallion
Afore now. Well, we've got an ould rapscallion
At Laxdale. . . .” But Kinley got despard impatien'—
“Well then, would it be suffayshin'
To burn her?” says Jack. “Be off, you brute!”
Says Kinley, “you donkey! you thundh'rin' toot!”
“Is that your 'pinion? and what are ye chargin'?”
Says Jack. My gough! you may aisy imargin
Ould Kinley! and turns to the clerks, and he roors—
“Pack this bumpkin out of doors!”
And bundled out like a sack o' potatis—
Says Jack—“I've gor a 'pinion gratis.”
So it was woe Bethsaida! woe Chorazin!
“Jack,” says I, “will you go to the Pazon?
You've had a shot at mostly everything posbil,
You've tried the law, let's try the gospel.
Let's go to church to-morrow,” I said,
“And hear the Pazon goin' ahead.
And after he's done the sarvice we'll foller him
Into the house, and then we'll collar him.”
So the three of us went—that's Jack and me,
And Harry! yes, Harry, unfortnitly—
I wasn' much used of church, I'll confess,
Not them times—aw, younger, yes—
In the Quire, and the Pazon theer—
Good Lord! how I loved him! aw dear, aw dear!
But knockin' about, and often at say,
Aw, a lill church 'll go a long way.
But still I was useder till Harry, that never
Went to any place whatever—
A reg'lar haythen surt of a chap,
Lek these Dalby fellows is very ap',
Ap' enough—and hadn' no notion
How to behave, and a surt of a ocean
Of spit at this divil; the whole of the pew
Nearly swimmin'—aw, it's true! it's true!
And'd mark some speck in the grain, or a knot
In the timber, and fire a splandid shot.
I know he could do it—of coorse he could—
Bless ye! that was understood.
And I warned him once, and I warned him twice—
I did, I did! and it isn' nice.
No it isn', in church, eh? what?
It's a dirty, savage thing is that.
The Clerk's wife had to clane it out
Agin the next Sunday—treminjus stout
That woman was—and then the churchwardens—
Kneale Ballagill, and Stole the Gardens—
Made a presantment—is that it?
That they couldn' pozzibly do with spit
In the church like yandhar; but just to annoy
The Pazon, because he was takin' joy
Of the leks of me—I knew them, blow them!
And so did everybody know them.
But however we got him middlin' quite
Sittin' there. I took a delight
To hear the Pazon readin' the sarvice;
Lek, you know, a lill bit narvous—
Aw, beautiful! For praechin'——well——
I was likin' him terrible;
But others was sayin' he hadn' the power:
And of coorse he cudn' go on by the hour
Like these Locals and that, nor he cudn' shout
And rag, and fling his arms about
Like a windmill theer, and his body goin' drivin'
Half urrov the pulpit—and how they're contrivin'
To keep their balance God only knows,
And sweatin' and stranglin' in their clothes
Most awful they are; and “Awake! awake!
Ye sinners!” and roors. But delicake—
That was the Pazon—not raw, but ripe,
And mallow, like berries, like a aisy pipe,
That draws like a baby the smooth it's goin'—
There's some that's bad to rattle and groan
Boosely—what? just wantin' clanin'—
Aye! But the Pazon that putty strainin'
Like God was takin' him for a flute,
And playin' on him—tootle-toot?
Not Him! but lovely music, clear
And sweet. You'd think, if you could hear
An angel smilin', it'd be rather
Like that—what? “I'll go to my father,”
It's sayin' theer, “and sinned,” d'ye see!
“Against Heaven,” aye! “and before thee,
And no more worthy to be callin'
Thy son.” And “Dearly beloved,” and fallin'
Down on their knees. And “no health in us,”
And “lost sheep,” and wuss and wuss.
And then the Pazon on his own hook,
And the sollum, and the lovely look
On his dear ould face—and the surt of a tenor,
And “desireth not the death of a sinner”—
Like just a mossel higher—aye!
Aw, fit to make a body cry—
Fit enough; and safter and safter,
And “that the rest of our life hereafter—”
My gough! like drops upon a wound,
And all “through Jesus,” you'll be bound.
The way he had! the way he had!
Say the words now, James, good lad!
Say them! try!—you can't? no, no!
Nor you, nor the one of us. We must turn to
And be like the Pazon, that's it, Jem—
Innocent and pure like him.
But O the hard! O night and day!
“O Lamb of God, that takest away
The sins of the world, have mercy upon us!”
(Kneel, men, kneel!) “have mercy upon us!”
I'll go on. The service was over for sure,
And then we in on the back door,
And axed would the Pazon see us two,
Not Harry of coorse, that cudn' do
With the like o' yandhar, hadn' the wit in—
Bless ye! a good-sized field to spit in
Was Harry's notion, and, rocks or reels,
The Pazon's fields was beautiful fields.
But the Pazon was in his study theer,
Sittin' in the arm-cheer,
And the servant brought the two of us in,
And sniffed, and cut, but lizzenin'
Outside no doubt, aw, lizzened,
Aw, as sure as she was chrizzened—
Bless ye! how could she help it—eh?
Just natheral, as you may say—
Natheral. So—“Pazon,” I says,
“Here's Jack Pentreath, that'll not take rest
About wutches,” I says; and I up and tould
All the jeel; and the Pazon to fould
His bands in a book, and as aisy as aisy,
And no hurry whatever; and Jack half crazy,
And “Go on then, Tom! go on! go on!”
And cudn' wait till I was done;
Like a thunderstorm! aw, fire and hail!
And “Yes, Pazon Gale!” and “No, Pazon Gale!”
And lovin' Nessy, and Nessy him,
And as happy as Jerusalem,
Till this dirt begun her divil's tricks,
And wutchin' the gel, “and puttin' betwix'
Hal Creer and me,” he says, “that was allis
The best of friends”; and the gallis, the gallis
Was too good for the lek, and if they got
Their rights, it's lek they'd find it hot—
“Hot,” he says, “rather hot, rather hot,”
Says Jack; but however, and whether or not,
They'd get it at last aback of the bars
Of hell, these divil's sassingers,
Fryin', yes! But could nothin' be done
Afore that to stop their carryin' on?
And—“Look here, Pazon, here's a go!
Think of Nessy—as pure as the snow,
And as sweet that shuggar cudn' be sweeter,
And this ould scoundhrel, this ould blue Peter
Of a rag of a vagabone to pizon
The loveliest craythur ye ever set eyes on!
Pizon! pizon! sartinly!
Body and sowl—machree! machree!
Pazon, Pazon! it shudn' be!
It shudn'! it shudn'!”—“What pizon then?”
Says the Pazon, “what pizon is it that's in,
Jack?” he says. “You surely don't think
She's givin' Nessy stuff to drink,
Harbs or the lek?”—“No, no!” says Jack;
“My gough! she's on another tack
Altogether. What odds the drinkin'? ?
Pizonin', pizonin' like winkin';
Sartinly!” not givin', but doin',
That was it—at the full moon—
Harbs—and what was to hinder her? d--- it!
(The Pazon looked funny.) Did he think they'd ram it
Down a gel's throat? My gough! what sense?
“Harbs! charms! did ye ever?—go to France!”
“Now Jack,” I says, “you'll spake respactful
To the Pazon,” I says. “Harbs! many a sackful
I've seen at her,” says Jack; “but dose
And drug the gel!—But the Pazon knows
Of coorse—no frankincense nor myrrh
Wasn' that; and ask your pardon, sir—
Brewin', that's it! and these divil's birds,
And the evil eye, and sayin' the words,
And the strength, and the steam, and the black art—
And lawyers—bless ye! takin' their part—
Lawyers—much on the same hand.
But the Pazon's the man! the Pazon's the man!
Eh, Tom? Let the Pazon go to work!
That's the boy that'll draw their cork!”
“Respactful,” I says, “then, Jack, if ye plaise;
Respactful, respactful!” And the Pazon to raise
His eyes a bit; and—“Do you believe
In this nonsense?” he says; and lek to reeve
A surt of a laugh through his shouldhers lek.
And—“Thomas,” he says, “aw well I'd expeck
Better of you.”—“What for then, Pazon?”
Says I, “if you'll excuse me as'in'.”
But Jack gave no time—“A Bible!” he says,
“A Bible! a Bible! chapter and vess!
Here you are! do you want to make fun of me?”
And the leaves goin' flyin', and “Deuteronomy,”
And—A wutch shall be put to death—very well;
And whips him over to Samuel—
“Wutches!” he says, “all right! all right!
And risin' the ould man in the dead of the night,
Ordered at Saul, ordered at Saul—
Sartinly, and hadn' no call,
Not the laste.”—“The witch of Endor,”
Says the Pazon; and “Yes! and how he'd befriend her,
And no punishment, he says; and look!
Look here!” says Jack, and shoves the book
Under the Pazon's very nose,
“Look here, man! look! and Samuel's ghose
Ascendin' urrov the earth—see, see!
Like gods.”—“You're makin' very free,
Jack,” I says; “respactful now!
Respactful, will ye!”—“Stop your row!”
Says Jack. “Lek gods, it's sayin'—what?
Eh, Pazon? But Samuel gev it him hot,
Didn' he, Pazon? Hev ye forgot?
Lizzen, lizzen! vess twenty-two;
And she made him ate his supper too—
To be sure!
Twenty-three, twenty-four—
And she hasted and killed a fat calf—
See, see! and unleavened bread thereof—
There ye are! went away that night—
Fuss of Samuel, twenty-eight.
Now then! now then! No wutches, eh?
No wutches, Pazon? Is that what you say?
In the Bible?” And goodness grayshers!
What was the gud o' Pazons and praechers,
If they were goin' and denyin' the very texes
In the Bible itself? And—“The laste ye expecks is
Give in to the Bible!” And the Pazon smilin'
Very paceful. “Well, don't be vi'len'!”
Says the Pazon, “but let me 'splain the thing.”
Aw, Jack to sulk, and Jack to fling—
And what was these Pazons but all a sham?
And didn' care a twopenny d---n!
“Be quite!” I says, “be quite now, Jack!
Look here! we'll have no disrespack
To Pazon Gale! No cussin' here!
No cussin' before the Pazon, theer!”
'Deed I spoke savage; for, traycle or botter,
Manners is manners—that's my motter.
But bless ye! the Pazon didn' take
The smallest notice; he'd hev gev him a shake
Sure enough, if it hedn' ha' been
The ter'ble bothered and 'cited he seen
Poor Jack was—for ye musn' suppose
The Pazon'd hide his head under the clothes
When cussin' was goin'—not him! What! cussin'
Before the Pazon? My gough! ye dussin'—
The chaps wudn' have it! It wasn' him,
But us, by G—d. It's limb from limb
We'd ha' tore the divil that dar'd to 'sult
Ould Pazon Gale. But Jack was pull't
Very sore in his heart; and the Pazon was kind,
And so, ye see, he didn' mind—
No—
And then he 'splaint and 'splaint,
Aw, uncommon! And—The Testament,
And the Ould and the New, and close akin,
But still for all the differin'—
And dispensin' and that. And all about ghoses,
And divils, and Samuel, and Moses;
And the power of the evil one, and them dirts
That was possessin' people, unclean spir'ts,
And spir'ts of infirmity—just so;
And that muck of divils that was suffered to go
Into the pigs, that was feedin' away—
Muck to muck! lek a body might say—
And drowned in the waters. And Christ to send them
About their biznuss, and take and pin them
In the only place they gor a right to,
And sure enough that's hell. And they'll try to
Ger out for a sthrowl, no doubt; but they can't—
And their power is gone; and no matter the haunt
Or the used of a place, or a pesson's body,
They're done complate. Some niddy-noddy
Of a poor craythur you'll be seein' still
On the counthry goin'; but unpozzible
For these divils to touch them, bein' innocent—
Wutches! no! But others rent
With fire and fury, and they're callin',
Insane, and that, and shoutin' and bawlin'—
Aw, as mad as brute bases—
But just a disase like other disases.
But wutches! we've got nothin' to say with—
Wutches! They're tuk and done away with
Altogether; got the sack;
And Christ that done it, and that's a fact!
And Baalim and Ashtaroth,
Heaven's queen and mother both—
Somethin' like that—but I'll take my oath—
A Roman? the Pazon! God bless your sowl!
Not him; but, if I may make so boul',
Just houl' your jaw! And—The Libyc Ammon,
The chap with the horns; and ould Mammon,
That must ha' been a surt of a fool,
With his eyes on the floor for the fond of the gool'—
Hapes—but druv away like chaff
Afore the babe that was born in the laf' —
At laste, the manger—and no use a' rebellin'—
That's the way the Pazon was tellin'.
The Bible? No; but a blind ould party
By the name o' Milton—blind, but hearty;
Gor . an eye inside of him theer,
Somewhere or another, an eye that clear
It could split the bottom of darkness in two,
And hev . a view, aw, he'd hev a view,
Fuss-rate, would Milton; aw, he wudn' fail!
But the Bible— But the Pazon was thinkin' a dale
Of this Milton, and the grand he wrote—
A pote, ye know, of coorse, a pote.
But still, for all—a pote, yis, yis!
But somethin' about it in Genesis.
Beautiful the Pazon purrit. .
But, bless ye! I might take and worret
My brains till next week, and I cudn' give it
The way the Pazon did—like a rivet,
The close and the sthrong—uncommon though!
And still, for all, was there wutches or no—
Aw, my gough! it's hard to be sayin'—
Aye—but seemin' ter'ble plain
When the Pazon was agate of the arguin' talk;
Nor me, nor even Jack didn' balk
The Pazon, nor never stirred nor winced,
But let him go on; but whether convinced—
It isn' me—my goodness, no!
But ter'ble quite and pleasant though.
And then the Pazon said he'd spake
To Nessy herself; and he hoped she'd take
Heart, he said; “for, Jack,” he says,
“If you're lovin' each other in truthfulness;
If your love is rael, if your love's sincere
(He was fond of the word), then never fear!
There's no power on earth, or anywhere else,
That'll harm ye, no!” And the ould eyes fills—
Aw, they did! aw, they did, and the hands was gript,
And Jack in the slush of tears, and slipt
On his knees—poor sowl! aw, feelin'! feelin'!
And the Pazon blessed him where he was kneelin'—
Sobbed, did Jack; and “You'll spake to her, yis!
You'll spake, you'll spake!” and sobbed, and ris, .
And out on the door, and off with us there,
And the two of us cryin' like fools we were—
“D---d fools,” says Harry, when he met us—
But Harry was Harry, so that didn' fret us—
“D---d fools, is it? well grantit! grantit!
But lave us, Harry.” So Harry slantit.
And the Pazon kep' his word, for he went
The very next day to see Nessy, and spent
The best of an hour with her there, and he tould her
All about wutches; and a mind to scould her
For the fearful she was: but all he done
Was spoke to her, and made the run .
Much the same he did with us—
And Nessy cryin' fit to bus'—
And about the power; they cudn' hev it,
These wutches, no! And who was to gev it?—
Most of them wake in their intelleck;
But others wicked; and the faymale seck
In general, the Pazon said—
Aye, wrong in the head, wrong in the head.
But mischievous enough was a wutch—
Sartinly—and spacial for such
That believed in the lek. But believe them not,
And where's their power? it's gone like a shot.
“It's you that gives them the power,” he says,
“By believin' in all this wickedness—
Power? It's you that's 'sponsible for it;
Don't give them the power, and they hevn' gorrit. .
Poor thing!” he says, “poor thing! poor thing!
Poor Nessy then!” And the hands to wring
At Nessy—aye—“And your aunt,” he said;
“Your aunt! aw dear! it's very bad—
Very bad, and very hard”—
But the door of messy wasn' barred
Agin the lek. And then he tuk
A little prayer, and Nessy shuk
All over; but got more pacefuller.
And then she said—“Will you spake to her,
Masthar Gale?” she says. Aw, his lip was goin',
But never a word, and never no knowin'
Azackly what was arrim —his head
All stooped, you know. But at last he said—
“I will”—very low, like a surt of a pride,
That humble and that dignified.
And the hat and the stick; and Nessy freckened
To see him like yandhar. Now it's general reckoned
That Pazons is special—what, special? my gough!
A Pazon can spit, and a Pazon can cough.
What is it botherin' you and me
In our sowls? We know we've done wrong, d'ye see!
Give it a word now! chrizzen it, chrizzen it!
In our sowls, in our sowls, man—Conscience, isn' it?
Conscience—sartinly. And the same
With Pazons. Pazons feelin' shame?
To be sure! aw, good enough some of them;
But still a conscience! You're thinkin' it's rum of them?
They should be angels altogether?
But bless ye! bless ye! just considher—
Or—drop it! Anyway, I'll be bail
There was conscience plenty in Pazon Gale.
And he knew he should ha' spoke to this beauty
Long afore, lek bein' his duty
As clear as clear: but didn', no!
That's the way—just so! just so!
The delicake—that's the way he spar'd her:
Bless ye! the delicaker the harder!
Isn' it? reg'lar? the harder to spake
To such dirts, the harder to have or to make
With their doin's, the natheral to keep
Urrov their road, lek the way with a sweep,
And his rope, and his brush, and his bag of shoot.
But wrong, I tell ye, and the Pazon knew't.
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!
The dear ould head . . . he stooped it, did he?
Well, but off to see the widdy—
This Banks—that very minute, aye!
But never saw her . . . why then, why?
Never saw her, that's it!
Never, never! but wait a bit!
She wasn' at home when the Pazon knocked,
No answer, at laste; and the door was locked
And Job away at the Clague's; and so
Of coorse the Pazon had to go.
But tried again next day; but never
No Mrs. Banks, that dodged him clever,
You'd be thinkin'—what? aw, well, well, well!
And next day, and next day; and it's hard to tell—
Weeks, it's lek—the Pazon was off
Every day to yandhar crof';
Weeks and weeks—and no use;
And poor Job tuk in at Brew's;
And wond'rin' greatly what had become
Of the mother; but still he had a home,
Of coorse; but terrible forsaken
Was Job, and sorrowful, and takin'
Up on the mountains and callin', callin'
“Mother! mother!” And chaps that was trawlin'
Down on the shore would feel a let,
And think they'd got her in the net—
But no! And Brew though, very kind;
And—“Never mind! never mind!
She'll be in Ramsey.” And axin' theer,
And Douglas, you know, and everywheer,
Till at last says Brew, “I'll wager she's gone
To Liverpool”; and “Lave her alone,
And she's all right.”
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!
But when the summer come round,
And the apples in blossom, and all the ground
Speckled with daisies, then Harry tried
To get them to do the coortin' outside,
The way they were used. For the chap had a notion
That the lovely smell, and the draught, and the motion
Of the wind through the trees, and the sweet and the fresh,
And the wholesome lek would unfasten the mesh
Of this divil's net that their hearts was caught in.
But Nessy wudn'; she said—they oughtn'
Nor no pleasure nor nothin', she said,
Till they'd know at laste was she live or dead—
This Banks. Believin' in wutches still?
Of coorse! of coorse! dear me! they will—
The women—and me? Yes me, and you,
For the matter of that. So don't give sthoo
Quite so hasty. The Pazon—you're sayin'?
Fuss-rate! fuss-rate! But you know what I mane—
The Pazon was arguin' capital—
Arguin'—but that's not all,
Isn' arguin'—it grips
The head of a fellow; but what is it rips
Your very sowl? What is it gives way
Inside ye, sinks ye, scuttles ye,
Falls urrov ye like a false bottom?
That's the thing! ye fancy ye got him,
Because he don't answer ye! answer your granny!
Isn' it natur' that's in? how can he
Go agin her? Take pitchforks to her,
You'll never put her to the door—
Never! natur'! bred in the blood!
Well, it's not natheral ye cud.
Two years went on, and not a word
About this Mrs. Banks was heard
At the Ballaquine, nor anywhere else,
Not a word: and boys and gels
Was pairin' off, and weddin's goin';
But Jack and Nessy wasn' showin'
No signs at all. But lizzen, my men!
I tould ye about the Dragon's Den,
That was high up on the mountain side;
And the ould shaft, that was op'nin' wide
At the foot of the slock —and gave up workin'
I don't know the years. Well now then herkin!
The Directors tuk a notion they'd try
This shaft again: and Captain Spry
Agate o' the search; and tuk a gang,
And Jack was one, and I'll be hang
If they didn' take Job to help to carry
Their tools, or the lek o' yandhar. And Harry—
Harry was there. And Job was lettin'
Down with a rope, for the way he'd be gettin'
Some candles lit on the first level,
For to light them, ye know. And a bank of gravel,
And then the shaft went farther down.
So Job was gropin', and got his ground,
And lit a candle. And they heard a cry
Most terrible they did. And Spry
Gave orders at once for Jack to be low'rt
Down to the level, and just to report
What was the matter. And so he done—
And what—aw, what did he find but the son
And the mother? And Job had fainted dead—
Poor thing! and there he was laid
By the side of the bones and the skull. For ye see
He knew her by the clothes—machree!
Machree! machree! And in her hand
She was clasping' an 'arb—I don't understand
Azackly what; but I'm tould it's knowin'
For the used at these wutches, and hardly growin'
Anywhere but round this shaft.
And that's the way, lek follerin' her craft,
She must have gone prowlin' up yandhar place,
And missed her footin'—and God's grace
Is for all, for all! But the 'arb had struck
A root in the gravel, and her hand was stuck
To the soil; and they had to tear it out—
Just fancy what a place to sprout!
But these dirts . . . but lave it. And Jack, though, Jack—
He sent Job up first: and then a sack
Was low'rt to him; and every pin of her,
And clout, and whatever there was in of her,
It was Jack, I tell ye, that gathered them all,
And made the signal for the men to haul;
And come up last himself, as game,
And divil a word; but his face all aflame
With the joy, you'd think. For he knew what'd happen
Soon enough now. But when the ould cap'n
Said, “Jack, my lad, that's a good job for you—
You'd better go tell it to Nessy Brew”—
Aw, bless ye! that was too much for him—what?
It floored him just the same he'd been shot,
And he fell like a corp. Then the men stood round,
And never a sound, never a sound!
Till Jack come to in the teems of tears
And sobs. And bless my sowl then! wheer's
The man cud ha' stood it? I know I cudn'—
Joy?—it was joy: but tuk that sudden
And— well, well, well—they formed in a line,
And they carried her to the Ballaquine
In puffeck silence—the wutch was dead;
They knew what they had, they knew what they had.
Next day the bell was toullin' for her;
And maybe it oughtn'; but sorrer is sorrer
After all; and God is a God
Of mercy—yes! I broke a sod
Of her grave myself; and the woman was buried—
The lightest coffin ever I carried.
And the Pazon read the sarvice—yis!
And—“Our dear sister,” what's this it is?
Aye, . . . and the . . . “sure and sartin hope”—
Well, I won't say nothin'—God gives the scope,
Not man; it's Him that slacks to us,
And rides us aisy—and well He does.
Anyway we buried the woman,
And the wutchin' with her. So now what's comin'?
Comin'? What? Why Jack of coorse,
And Nessy—aw, as sure as sure's.
Happy, I tell ye, sartinly!
And me to church with them, it's aisy to see.
And nice she looked, and nice she was—
And summer for winter, and heat for frost;
And the dooiney-molla all in his glory;
And the club bruk up, and the end of the story—
Jack Pentreath—you'll remember him—
And Nessy Brew—Just douse that glim!

JOB THE WHITE

THE INDIAMAN

MARY QUAYLE

The Curate's Story

BELLA GORRY

The Pazon's Story

ENVOY

GO BACK!

But now
From the brow
Of old Skiddaw, high-perched
On the last of the cairns,
Myself and my bairns,
We searched
For our sweetest of sweet little Hesperids;
And our lids
Were stung
By the “saut”
Sharp slung
From the wall
Of a squall,
That wrought,
And blurred,
And slurred
The air
Out there,
So that naught
Of our Isle,
The while,
Could we see,
But a film of the faintest ivory.
Just half-way down the slope we sit,—
When, suddenly, the sky is lit—
Look, look! as through a sliding panel
Of pearl, our Mona! Has she crossed the Channel
For us? that there she lies almost
A portion of the Cumbrian coast?
Dark purple peaks against the sun,
A gorgeous thing to look upon?
Nay, darling of my soul! I fear
To see your beauty come so near—
I would not have it! This is not your rest—
Go back, go back, into your golden West!