University of Virginia Library


79

THE MONKEY-O'-HERSE-BACK METHODY MAN.

I was taävin' about i' “the yard,” like the critter among the graäves,
When parson he coomed thruff the garden and in at the choorchyard gaäte,
And he seed that summat was oop, for it's not very offens I raäves,
And he sez, “Good mornin',” sez he, “and isn't it reyther laäte?”
And I turned round stunt at the word, I 'ed wind the owd clock that morn,
'Ed scratted the clat fro the wheeäls and gëan her works a shak.
Sich a chitterin' thing to be sewer, a reglar recklin-born,
Maäde by a tinker feller as 'edn't a cwöat to 'is back.

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And sez I, “Ting-tang esn't gone! If we're laäte oop theer i' the tower,
There'll be many a tick-tack liar to weeäk i' the farmer's fob,
For nivver a cart as passes, but reckons a taäking the hour,
We've nivver deceäved 'em yit, sin I beeän along o' the job.”
But the words warn't coäld fro' my mouth when dang it the quarter went,
“Clock agin, clerk,” nods the parson, and into the choorch weä past.
It warn't to be called a sarvice, noa ting tang, noa horganiment,
I mowed the Aämens and I mashed the Psalms, fur heä went soa fast.
And arter sarvice he grunted, as I wur a hingin' the gown,
“What's oop?” “A deal,” I sez, for I nivver was parson-shan,
“And I reckon I shan't be better till I've beeän a time or twoa down
O' my kneeäs, along o' the Monkey-o'-herse-back Methody man.

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“But I'll owt wi' it all, it's best for stummick and mebbe for mind.
You knaw up a Sunday mornin' it's ëight o'clock bell as goäs,
And I cooms to seä to the fires and to gie the owd clock a wind,
Birds gits into the chaämber, so I cooms i' my wuk-a-day cloäs.
“We 'ed fired and 'ed clocked,—eh! dear, what a clat of a job to be sewer—
Wants a new roäpe for the weights, theer's summat wrong wi' a chime—
And I loöked owt Halminak plaäces and hid the keäy by the door,
And hoff to breäkfast I went to be cleeän by sarvice time.
“I heeärd a hamblin' sound, and I gits myssen oop o' the pad,
And a voice like thunderee cooms bealin' a back o' my heäd.
Thinks I wi' myssen, thinks I, it's nobbut the doctor's lad,
It's somebody wants to be boarn, or somebody wants to be deäd.

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“Not noä bizness o' mine, and ‘Feller!’ the chap cries out,
But I taäkes noa noatish, and ‘Feller!’ ageän he sings in a rooar.
‘My man!’ and ‘Feller!’ Wi' that I turned myssen faäce to the shout,
‘My naäme's not ‘Feller,’ my naäme's i' the Bible, it's Jeremy Hoaare.
“‘Now what's your bizness?’ I sez, ‘And what do you want o' mea?’
And he draws hissel oop i' the saddle wi' a sanck-shimonious leer,
‘By your appearance, my friend, i' your wuk-a-day cloäs, I seä
You're a-gooin' to spend this Sabbath an all, along o' the beer.’
“Lor' how the blood went oop, me as doän't take nowt you may saäy,
Not to call owt, from Fattus reight thruff to Horncestle
Meä, a clerk i' the choorch, to be called and my-friended that waäy,
Meä comin' hoäm fro' the choorch, i' cloäs for the puppos I wear.

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“Naäy, naäy, if the parson's tub i' the choorch is a barrel ov aäle,
Ya may call the clerk's seat by its side a aäle bench reight enuff;
Nivver no sarvice wi'owt me, and allays theer wi'owt fail,
And nivver no missin' the ëight o'clock bell the whole year thruff.
“So I turned and snapt at my monkey, and answered him plaäin and straäight—
‘I'm not a-gooin’ to spend my Sabbath along o' the swill,
Not no moor than you, a-ridin' your raäil of a gaäte,
And who giv you God's daäy to goa about speakin' ill?’
“For I seëad by the cut of his faäce he wur one of them ranter chaps,
Good, no doubt, i' the gab when theer's onything good to git,
Fussin' about the country and settin' their hell-fire traps,
And I thowt by the colour he 'ed plaäyed hissen wi' the jug a bit.

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“Sez he, ‘My friend, I'm one as God O'mighty oärdained
To goa about lettin' fwoaks knoa the terrible staäte they're in,
And mightn't I beä quite sewer 'twas the sperrit o' luvv had reined
His herse and bidden 'im speäk to a man wi' the loöks ov sin.’
“‘Oardained of who?’ I sez. ‘You may ranter and canter awaäy,
Aye, and pison the ponds you wesh in by leavin' your sins behind,
For hafter yon Baptist dippin' owd Ellerby's cows went wrong—
But oardained, you were nivver oardained a preächer, least waäy to my mind.
“Oardained, you're not oardained, not hauf so much as myssen,
For I am a clerk i' the choorch, and goäs to the Supper an' all,
Nivver a woman wed nor choorched, but I sez Aämen,
And I moästlins sattles the ‘Lesson,’ and gies the parson 'is call.

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“‘Telled in the sperrit was ya? It's a foöl rides faäce to the taäil,
Or blaämt if I shouldn't ha' thowt that a knaäve had got höld o' the rein;
But when clerks i' their wuk-a-daäy cloäs is thowt to be sinners i' aäle,
It's not the sperrit o' luvv, it's the Methody man's mistaäen.
“‘Tellin’ fwoaks o' their sins, thou'rt a strëan pretty haängel o' graäce,
When parson sez a bit rough he hus'es and we'es it the while,
Goin' about insultin' the loikes o' meä to my faäce,
Rubbin' in salt to the soäres and forgettin' the wine and ile.’
“I was o'most fit to be craäzed, the feller he maäde me so mad,
But he seead he was oop to his neck wi' noan but hissen to thank,
So he looked as much as to saäy, ‘You're hoäver-eärdly bad,’
And hoff he popped at a canter the Methody mountebank.

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“And I dowt till I've bin down a bit o' my kneëas I shan't be reight,
It's solidly spoilt the sarvice this mornin' from fust to last.
I could mebbe forgit the feller, but it's ting-tang went so laäte,
And all i' the town to hear it a gooin' a quarter past.
“It's bad enuff to be blaämt for mindin' my Sunday traäde,
Windin' them clatty owd works, and ringin' yon ëight o'clock bell,
But hafter I'd sattled the Lessons and seeäd that the fires was maäde,
I had taen the Boök this mornin' and studied five chapters as well.
“Noä dowt it's wrong to be craäzed, and them as trusts to the Lord
Should let sich Monkey-o'-herse-back men goä canterin by,
But it's not very nisht to be called that how, when you've read i' the Word
Bang thruff three o' Colosshans and two o' Malachi.”
 

Walking excitedly.

Dirt.

A poor weakling.

The small bell rung before the service.

Afraid of the parson.

“Fat-horse,” an annual horse-fair.