Part 13

A match for Bonaparte.

Conceited tricks.

Suspected.

As proud as an idol.

Grumbling.

Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I’m fain to see thee here, A Devon lass to fill my glass O’ home-brewed Yorkshire beer. I awlus said that foreigners Sud niver mel on me; But sike a viewly face as thine I’d travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I’m sad to see thee here, Wheer t’ wind blaws hask frae Norway I’ t’ spring-time o’ the year. I’d liever finnd thee sittin’, Wi’ a bowl o’ cruds an’ cream, Wheer t’ foxglove bells ring through the dells, Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, The way thou snods thy hair, It maks my heart go dancin’ Like winnlestraws i’ t’ air. One neet I heard thee singin’, As I cam home frae toon; ’Twas sweet as curlews makkin’ love Agean a risin’ moon.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I dream o’ thy gray een; I think on all I’ve wasted, An’ what I might hae been. I’m nowt but muck off t’ midden, So all I axe is this: Just blaw the froth from off my yal; ’Twill seem most like a kiss.

Metcalfe.

Keenly.

Whisps of grass or straw.

Ale.

The Local Preacher

Ay, I’m a ranter, so at least fowks say; Happen they’d tell t’ same tale o’ t’ postle Paul. I’ve ranted fifty yeer, coom first o’ May, An’ niver changed my gospil through ’em all.

There’s nowt like t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb an’ t’ Fire o’ Hell To bring a hardened taistril to his knees; If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell ’Em straight, I’ve got no cure for their disease.

I willent thole this New Theology That blends up Hell wi’ Heaven, sinners wi’ saints For black was black when I turned Methody, An’ white was white, i’ souls as weel as paints.

That’s awlus t’ warp an’ t’ weft o’ my discourse, An’ awlus will be, lang as I can teach; If fowks won’t harken tul it, then, of course, They go to church and hear t’ owd parson preach.

His sarmon’s like his baccy, sweet an’ mild; Fowk’s ommost hauf asleep at t’ second word. By t’ Mass! they’re wick as lops, ay, man an’ child, When I stan’ up an’ wrastle wi’ the Lord.

Nay, I’m not blamin’ parson, I’ll awant; Preachin’s his trade, same way as millin’s mine. I’ trade you’ve got to gie fowks what they want, An’ that is mostly sawcum meshed reet fine.

Tak squire theer; he don’t want no talk o’ Hell, He likes to hark to t’ parable o’ t’ teares ; He reckons church is wheat that’s gooid to sell, But chapil’s nobbut kexes, thorns, an’ brears.

Squire’s lasses, they can’t do wi’ t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb They’re all for t’ blooid o’ t’ foxes, like our Bob. The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn Church fowks wid out me mellin’ on His job.

But gie me chapil lasses gone astray, Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet, An’ I’ll raise Cain afore I go away, If I don’t gie ’em t’ glent o’ t’ Gospil leet.

I’ll mak ’em sit on t’ penitential stooils, An’ roar as loud as t’ buzzer down at t’ mill; I’ll mak ’em own that they’ve bin despert fooils, Wi’ all their pride o’ life a bitter pill.

I’ve mony texts, but all to one point keep, Same as all t’ becks flow down to one saut sea: Damnation an’ salvation, goats an’ sheep— That’s t’ Bible gospil that thou’ll get thro’ me.

Reprobate.

Lively as fleas.