Northern Farmer: Old Style
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Wheer 'asta ben saw long and me liggin' 'ere alon?
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy, Doctor's aben an' agon;
Says that I mont 'a naw moor ale; but I bent a fool;
Git ma my ale, fur I bent a-gawin' to brek my rule.
Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's nawways true;
Naw soort o' koind o' use to say the things that a do.
I 've 'ed my point o' ale ivry noight sin' I ben 'ere.
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year.
Parson 's a ben loikewoise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed.
"The amoighty 's a takin o' you to 'isn, my friend," a said,
An' a towd ma my sins, an' s toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond;
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond.
Larn'd a ma' be. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn.
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne.
Thaw a knaws I hallus voted wi' Squoire an' choorch an' state,
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the rate.
An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur ded,
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' away loike a buzzard-clock ower me 'ed,
An' I niver knaw'd whot a men'd but a thowt 'ad summut to say.
An' I thowt a said what a owt to 'a said, an' I coom'd away.
Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laid it to me.
Mowt a ben, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, she.
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond;
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond.
But Parson a cooms an' a gos, an' a says it easy an' free:
"The amoighty 's takin o' you to 'issn, my friend," says 'e.
I went say men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 'aste;
But 'e reds wonn sarmin a week, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waste.
D' ya moind the waste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then;
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'erd 'um mysn;
Most loike a butter-bump, fur I 'erd 'um about an' about,
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raved an' rembled 'um out.
Keper's it wur; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laid of is' face
Down i' the woild 'enemies afoor I coom'd to the place.
Noks or Thimbleby--toner 'ed shot 'um as dead as a nail.
Noks wur 'ang'd for it opp at 'soize--but git ma my ale.
Dubbut look at the waaste; theer warn't not feed for a cow;
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' look at it now--
Warn't worth nowt a hacre, an' now theer 's lots o' feed,
Fourscoor yows upon it, an' some on it down i' seed.
Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I men'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall,
Done it ta-year I men'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all,
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma alon,--
Me, wi hate hoonderd hacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my on.
Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-takin' o' me?
I bent wonn as saws 'ere a ben an yonder a pe;
An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all--a' dear, a' dear!
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year.
A mowt 'a taen owd Jones, as 'ant not a 'apoth o' sense,
Or a mowt a' taen young Robins--a niver mended a fence:
But godamoighty a moost take me an' take ma now,
Wi' af the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby holms to plow!
Look 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' boy,
Says to thessn, naw doubt, "What a man a be sewer-loy!"
Fur they knaws what I ben to Squoire sin' fust a coom'd to the 'All;
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall.
Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite,
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater me that muddles ma quoit;
Sartin-sewer I be, thot a went niver give it to Jones,
Naw, nor a mont to Robins--a niver rembles the stons.
But summun 'ull come ater me mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' stem
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed felds wi' the Divil's on tem.
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet,
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn aber to see it.
What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring me the ale?
Doctor 's a 'tottler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd tale;
I went brek rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy;
Git ma my ale, I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy.
