Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 24

“Some books are lies fra end to end,

And some great lies were never penn’d;

But this that I am gaun to tell,

* * * Lately on a night befel.” – Burns.

’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet,

   Net far fra Kersmas time,

When I met wee this Feffy Goast,

   The subject of mi rhyme.

I’d been hard up fer monny a week,

   Mi way I cuddant see,

Fer trade an’ commerce wor as bad

   As ivver they could be.

T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,

   An’ t’combers wor quite sick,

Fer weeks they nivver pool’d a slip,

   Ner t’weivers wave a pick.

An’ I belong’d ta t’latter lot,

   An’ them wor t’war o’t’ two,

Fer I’d nine pair o’ jaws i’ t’haase,

   An nowt for ’em ta do.

T’owd wife at t’ time wor sick i’ bed,

   An’ I’d a shockin’ cowd,

Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,

   Wor nobbut three days owd.

Distracted to mi varry heart,

   At sitch a bitter cup,

An’ lippenin’ ivvery day at com,

   At summat wod turn up;

At last I started off wun neet,

   To see what I could mak;

Determin’d I’d hev summat ta eit,

   Or else I’d noan go back.

Through t’Skantraps an’ be t’ Bracken Benk,

   I tuke wi’ all mi meet;

Be t’ Wire Mill an’ Ingrow Loin,

   Reight into t’ oppen street.

Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,

   An’ I wor rare an’ fain,

Fer near it stood t’owd parsonage —

   I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went ta t’ Wicket Gate,

   Though sad I am ta say it,

Resolv’d to ax ’em for some breead,

   Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shackin’ it,

   A form raase up before,

An’ sed “What does ta want, tha knave,

   Shackin’ t’ Wicket Door?”

He gav me then ta understand,

   If I hedant come to pray,

At t’grace o’ God an’ t’breead o’ life,

   Wor all they gav away.

It’s fearful nice fer folk ta talk

   Abaat ther breead o’ life,

An’ specially when they’ve plenty,

   Fer t’childer an’ ther wife.

Bud I set off ageean at t’run,

   Fer I weel understood,

If I gat owt fra that thear clahn,

   It woddant do ma good.

I’ travellin’ on I thowt I heeard,

   As I went nearer t’tahn,

A thaasand voices i’ mi ears,

   Sayin’ “John, whear are ta bahn?”

In ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d,

   A play-card I could see,

I’ t’biggest type at e’er wod print —

   “There’s nowt here, lad, fer thee.”

Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d,

   Asteead o’ meit wor seen,

A mighty carvin’-knife hung up,

   Reight fair afore mi een.

Destruction wor invitin’ me,

   I saw it fearful clear,

Fer ivvery druggist window sed —

   “Real poison is sold here.”

At last I gav a frantic howl,

   A shaat o’ dreead despair,

I seized missen by t’toppin then,

   An’ shack’d an’ lugged mi hair.

Then quick as leetnin’ ivver wor,

   A thowt com i’ mi heead —

I’d tak a walk to t’Simetry,

   An’ meditate wi’ t’deead.

T’owd Church clock wor striking’ t’ time

   At folk sud be asleep,

Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,

   An’ t’Pindar after t’sheep.

Wi’ lengthen’d pace I hasten’d off

   At summat like a trot;

Ta get ta t’place I started for,

   Mi blood wor boiling hot.

An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,

   Rear’d up ageean a post,

I cuddant tell – but yet I thowt

   It wor another goast!

But whether it wor a goast or net,

   I heddant time ta luke,

Fer I wor takken bi surprise

   When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.

Abaat two hunderd yards i’ t’front,

   As near as I could think,

I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise,

   An’ nah an’ then a clink!

Whativver can these noises be?

   Some robbers, then I thowt! —

I’d better step aside an’ see,

   They’re happen up ta nowt!

So I gat ower a fence ther wor,

   An’ peeping threw a gate,

Determin’d to be satisfied,

   If I’d a while to wait.

At last two figures com ta t’spot

   Whear I hed hid misel,

Then walkers’-earth and brimstone,

   Most horridly did smell.

Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,

   His face as black as sooit,

His name, I think wor Nickey Ben,

   He hed a clovven fooit.

An’ t’other wor all skin an’ bone

   His name wor Mr. Deeath;

Withaat a stitch o’ clooas he wor,

   An’ seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.

He hed a scythe, I plainly saw,

   He held it up aloft,

Just same as he wor bahn ta maw

   Owd Jack O’Doodle’s Croft.

“Where are ta bahn ta neet, grim phiz?”

   Sed Nickey, wi’ a grin,

“Tha knaws I am full up below,

   An’ cannot tak more in.”

“What is’t ta thee?” said Spinnel Shanks,

   “Tha ruffin of a dog,

I’m nobbut bahn mi raands ageean,

   Ta see wun John o’t’ Bog.

“I cannot see it fer mi life,

   What it’s ta dew wi’ thee;

Go mind thi awn affairs, owd Nick,

   An’ nivver thee heed me.”

“It is my business, Spinnel Shanks,

   Whativver tha may say,

Fer I been rostin’ t’human race

   Fer monny a weary day.”

Just luke what wark, I’ve hed wi’ thee,

   This last two yer or so;

Wi’ Germany an Italy,

   An’ even Mexico.

An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil

   Browt in some thaasands more;

An’ sooin fra Abyssinia,

   They’ll bring black Theodore.

“So drop that scythe, owd farren deeath,

   Let’s rest a toathree wick;

Fer what wi’ t’seet o’t’ frying pan,

   Tha knows I’m ommost sick.”

“I sall do nowt o’t’ sort,” says Deeath,

   Who spack it wi’ a grin,

I’s just do as I like fer thee,

   So tha can hod thi din.”

This made owd Nick fair raging mad,