Part 6 (1/2)

”Some books are lies frae 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 fro Kersmas time, When I met wi this Feoffee Goast, The subject ov my rhyme.

I'd been hard up fer mony a week, My way I cuddant see, Fer trade an commerce wor as bad As ivver they cud be.

T'poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An t'combers wor quite sick, For weeks they niver pool'd a slip, Ner t'weivers wave a pick.

An I belong'd to t'latter lot, An them wor t'war o t'wo, Fer I'd nine pairs o jaws e t'haase, An nowt for em ta do.

T'owd wife at t'time wor sick e bed, An I'd a shocking coud, Wal t'youngest barn we hed at home, Wor n.o.bbut three days oud.

Distracted to my vary heart, At sitch a bitter cup, An lippening ivvery day at com, At summat wod turn up.

At t'last I started off wun neet, To see what I could mak; Determin'd I'd hev summat t' 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'oppan street.

Saint John's Church spire then I saw, An I wor rare an fain, Fer near it stood t'oud parsonage- I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went to t'Wicket Gate, Though sad I am to say it, Resolv'd to ax em for some breead, Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shacking it, A form raise up afore, An sed ”What dus ta want, tha knave, Shacking t' Wicket Door?”

He gav me then to understand, If I hedant c.u.m to pray, At t'grace o' G.o.d an t'breead o' life, Wor all they gav away.

It's feaful nice fer folk to talk Abaat ther breead o' life, An specially when they've plenty, Fer t'childer an ther wife.

Bud I set off agean at t'run, Fer I weel understood, If I gat owt fra that there clan, It woddant do ma good.

E travelling on I thowt I heeard, As I went nearer t'tahn, A thaasand voices e mi ears Saying ”John, where are ta bahn?”

An ivvery grocer's shop I pa.s.s'd, A play-card I cud see, E t'biggest type at e'er wod print- ”There's nowt here, lad, for thee.”

Wal ivvery butcher's shop I pa.s.s'd, Astead o' meit wor seen, A mighty carving-knife hung up, Hi, fair afore me een.

Destruction wor inviting me, I saw it fearful clear, Fer ivvery druggist window sed- ”Real poison is sold here.”

At t'last I gav a frantic howl, A shaat o' dreead despair, I seized mesen be t'toppin then, An shack'd an lugg'd me hair.

Then quick as leetening ivver wor, A thowt com e me heead- I'd tak a walk to t'Symetry, An meditate wi t'deead.

T'oud Cherch clock then wor striking t'time At folk sud be asleep, Save t'Bobbies at wor on ther beat, An t'Pindar after t'sheep.

Wi lengthened pace I hasten'd off At summat like a trot; To get to t'place I started for, Me blooid wor boiling hot.

An' what I saw at Lack.o.c.k Gate, Rear'd up agean a post, I cuddant tell-but yet I thowt It wor another goast!

Bud whether it wor goast or not, I heddant time to luke, Fer I wor taken be surprise, When turning t'Sharman's Nuke.

Abaat two hundard yards e t'front, As near as I cud think, I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise, An nah an then a clinck!