Part 8

Unwieldy, grumbling rascals.

Hoarse.

Snare.

Meddle with.

The Gardener and the Robin

Why! Bobbie, so thou’s coom agean! I’m fain to see thee here; It’s lang sin I’ve set een on thee, It’s ommost hauf a yeer. What’s that thou says? Thou’s taen a wife An’ raised a family. It seems thou’s gien ’em all the slip Now back-end’s drawin’ nigh.

I mun forgi’e thee; we’re owd friends, An’ fratchin’s not for us; Blackbirds an’ spinks I can’t abide, At doves an’ crows I cuss. But thou’ll noan steal my strawberries, Or nip my buds o’ plum; Most feather-fowl I drive away, But thou can awlus coom.

Ay, that’s thy place, at top o’ t’ clod, Thy heead cocked o’ one side, Lookin’ as far-learnt as a judge. Is that a worrm thou’s spied? By t’ Megs! he’s well-nigh six inch lang, An’ reed as t’ gate i’ t’ park; If thou don’t mesh him up a bit, He’ll gie thee belly-wark.

My missus awlus lets me know I’m noan so despert thin; If I ate sausages as thou Eats worrms, I’d brust my skin! Howd on! leave soom for t’ mowdiwarps That scrats down under t’ grund ; Of worrms, an’ mawks, an’ bummel-clocks Thou’s etten hauf a pund.

So now thou’ll clear thy pipes an’ sing: Grace after meat, I s’pose. Thou looks as holy as t’ owd saint I’ church wi’ t’ brokken nose. Thou’s plannin’ marlocks all the time, Donned i’ thy sowdier coat; An’ what we tak for hymns o’ praise Is just thy fratchin’ note.

I’ve seen thee feightin’ theer on t’ lawn, Beneath yon laurel tree; Thy neb was reed wi’ blooid, thou looked As chuffy as could be. Thou’s got no mense nor morals, Bob, But weel I know thy charm. Ay, thou can stand upon my spade. I’ll niver do thee harm.

Chaffinches.

Moles.

Maggots.

Beetles.

Tricks.

Haughty.

Lile Doad

The Lord’s bin hard on me, Sir, He’s stown my barn away. O dowly, dowly was that neet He stole lile Doad away!

’Twas Whissuntide we wedded, Next Easter he was born, Just as t’ last star i’ t’ April sky Had faded into t’ morn. Throstles were singin, canty, For they’d their young i’ t’ nest; But birds don’t know a mother’s love That howds her barn to t’ breast.

When wark was ower i’ summer, I nussed him on my knees; An’ Mike browt home at lowsin’-time Wild rasps an’ strawberries. We used to sit on t’ door-sill I’ t’ leet o’ t’ harvist-moon, While our lile Doad would clench his fists An’ suck his toes an’ croon.

But when t’ mell-sheaf was gotten, An’ back-end days set in, Wi’ frost at neet an’ roke by day, His face gate pinched an’ thin. We niver knew what ailed him, He faded like a floor, He faded same as skies’ll fade When t’ sun dips into t’ moor.

Church bells on Kersmas mornin’ Rang out so merrily, But cowd an’ dreesome were our hearts: We knew lile Doad must dee. He lay so still in his creddle, An’ slowly he dwined away, While I laid two pennies on his een On Holy Innocents’ Day.

The Lord’s bin hard on me, Sir, He’s stown my barn away. O, dowly, dowly was that neet He stole lile Doad away!

Briskly.

The last sheaf of the harvest.

Mist.

Until.