Poems, Ballads and Bucolics :: :: University of Virginia Library

I nivver went howt o' the town,
I'm noan o' your fidgetty-rigs;
It's twenty year sin' I hed a black gown
To my back, and I keeäps noä pigs.
But if there's owt that I like as well
As my cat, it's a book abowt Heaven and Hell.

There's summat as warms your blood
In a trak about fwoaks as sins,
For praise the Lord—He is good,
It nivver ends saäme as't begins.
We all on us hev our faults, but then
It's a strangen plaäce for quar'ls is the Fen.

Not that I quar'l, but, lor!
Wi' chickens a scratting your stocks,

112

And bairns a slamming the door,
Or clamming the hollyhocks,
It's nowt but the graäce of Heaven I saäy
As keeps ya neahbourly daäy by daäy.

For they're nowt but a mask o' fieënds,
From the mill reight down to the dreän,
Nivver cud call 'em friends,
Sich tongues and so blaämedly meän:
There's Stubbs's, and Johnson's and Ellerby's lot,
Fieënds from the man reight thruff to the cot.

And it's not for want of a teächer,
For parson he's plaäin and straight;
And one of the wust's a preächer,
And they goa to choorch fust-rate.
But to keeap fro' guile, oh, it's 'maäzin' hard,
When you're called to your faäce i' your oän backyard.

I tried all ways to git on,
But my owd man was so bad,
And mebbe it's well he's gone,
For he spent what boöath on us had;

113

And was I, his wife, to saäy nowt, and hear
The things fwoaks sed when they see'd him i' beer?

But, howivver, he went at last,
And I'd a'most nowt to do,
For my work-a-daäy toime wur past,
And the bairns at sarvice too,
So I toök to larning mysen to reäd,
And the laädies up at the Hall agreeäd.

I cud scrat i' the paäpers a bit,
And guess at the praäyers i' chuch;
But now I can reeäd as I knit,
Reight thruff, be it ivver so much;
And the laädies knaws I luvv nowt so well
As a trak as treeäts of Heaven and Hell.

I've mastered “Brands from the Flames,”
And “Saäfe,” and “Wheer are you now?”
And a mess wi' terrible names
As browt the sweat to my brow.
But the laädies softened them off, besure,
They'd meant that packet for fwoaks next door.

114

I weant hev no more fro' the Hall,
I shall tek in the Baptists' next,
A maäkin' one crip and crawl
And turn i' one's bed—I was vext:
For tha knaws very well that theer's traks and traks,
And soom's for choorch-fwoak and soom's for blacks.

It's my opinion Miss Kaäte
Hes gotten the wrong soort sent;
Noä dowt that soom's fust-rate,
But some on 'em's devilment.
There's one I've kep' wropped up for long,
Wi' a naäme I reckon quite dreadful wrong.

It's lock'd i' my drawer upstairs,
The laädies found me fro' home,
And left it me unawares;
I keeäp it wropped up till they come.
By the words on the coover howtside I could seä
It was not for a hungry soul like meä.

Mind the knots round the boök,
It's reytherly queerly done,

115

And hankercher's owd; now look
At the naäme, “A Chaäsing the Sun!”
Did you ivver see loikes o' the soort afoar,
For a trak to be lent fro' door to door?

“Chaäsing the Sun,”—as I reäd,
I shaäkes to menshun the word!
“Chaäsing the Sun,” i'deeäd,
The sun belongs to the Lord
They'll find if they chaäses it fast or slow
That God Omighty will let 'em know!

Noa, noa, I'm fond of a trak,
But the Devil he mebbe can write
And shuffle his oän i' a pack
That's hotherwise Christian quite.
But the laädies, I reckon, is much to blaäme
For leaving yon trak wi' a terrible naäme.