Chapter X

Twenty pound o' thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha'e I, Thine shall go to pay the woman, an' wi' my bit we'll buy All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place, An' we'll be married at th' registrar--now lift thy face.

Lift thy face an' look at me, man, up an' look at me: Sorry I am for this business, an' sorry if I ha'e driven thee To such a thing: but it's a poor tale, that I'm bound to say, Before I can ta'e thee I've got a widow of forty-five to pay.

Dunnat thee think but what I love thee--I love thee well, But 'deed an' I wish as this tale o' thine wor niver my tale to tell; Deed an' I wish as I could stood at the altar wi' thee an' been proud o' thee, That I could ha' been first woman to thee, as thou'rt first man to me.

But we maun ma'e the best on't--I'll rear thy childt if 'er'll yield it to me, An' then wi' that twenty pound we gi'e 'er I s'd think 'er wunna be So very much worser off than 'er wor before--An' now look up An' answer me--for I've said my say, an' there's no more sorrow to sup.

Yi, tha'rt a man, tha'rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes As sulky an' ormin' as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise From what I've arranged wi' thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou art, Kiss me then--there!--ne'er mind if I scraight--I wor fond o' thee, Sweetheart.

A COLLIER'S WIFE

Somebody's knocking at the door
Mother, come down and see.
--I's think it's nobbut a beggar,
Say, I'm busy.

Its not a beggar, mother,--hark
How hard he knocks ...
--Eh, tha'rt a mard-'arsed kid,
'E'll gi'e thee socks!

Shout an' ax what 'e wants,
I canna come down.
--'E says "Is it Arthur Holliday's?"
Say "Yes," tha clown.

'E says, "Tell your mother as 'er mester's
Got hurt i' th' pit."
What--oh my sirs, 'e never says that,
That's niver it.

Come out o' the way an' let me see,
Eh, there's no peace!
An' stop thy scraightin', childt,
Do shut thy face.

"Your mester's 'ad an accident,
An' they're ta'ein 'im i' th' ambulance
To Nottingham,"--Eh dear o' me
If 'e's not a man for mischance!

Wheers he hurt this time, lad?
--I dunna know,
They on'y towd me it wor bad--
It would be so!

Eh, what a man!--an' that cobbly road,
They'll jolt him a'most to death,
I'm sure he's in for some trouble
Nigh every time he takes breath.

Out o' my way, childt--dear o' me, wheer
Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;
Goodness knows if they'll be able
To take off his pit dirt.

An' what a moan he'll make--there niver
Was such a man for a fuss
If anything ailed him--at any rate
_I_ shan't have him to nuss.

I do hope it's not very bad!
Eh, what a shame it seems
As some should ha'e hardly a smite o' trouble
An' others has reams.

It's a shame as 'e should be knocked about
Like this, I'm sure it is!
He's had twenty accidents, if he's had one;
Owt bad, an' it's his.

There's one thing, we'll have peace for a bit,
Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;
An' there's compensation, sin' it's accident,
An' club money--I nedn't grouse.

An' a fork an' a spoon he'll want, an' what else;
I s'll never catch that train--
What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt--
I s'd think he'll get right again.

THE DRAINED CUP

The snow is witherin' off'n th' gress Love, should I tell thee summat? The snow is witherin' off'n th' gress An' a thick mist sucks at the clots o' snow, An' the moon above in a weddin' dress Goes fogged an' slow-- Love, should I tell thee summat?

Tha's been snowed up i' this cottage wi' me, Nay, I'm tellin' thee summat.-- Tha's bin snowed up i' this cottage wi' me While th' clocks has a' run down an' stopped An' the short days withering silently Unbeknown have dropped. --Yea, but I'm tellin' thee summat.

How many days dost think has gone?-- Now I'm tellin' thee summat. How many days dost think has gone? How many days has the candle-light shone On us as tha got more white an' wan? --Seven days, or none-- Am I not tellin' thee summat?

Tha come to bid farewell to me-- Tha'rt frit o' summat. To kiss me and shed a tear wi' me, Then off and away wi' the weddin' ring For the girl who was grander, and better than me For marrying-- Tha'rt frit o' summat?

I durstna kiss thee tha trembles so, Tha'rt frit o' summat. Tha arena very flig to go, 'Appen the mist from the thawin' snow Daunts thee--it isna for love, I know, That tha'rt loath to go. --Dear o' me, say summat.

Maun tha cling to the wa' as tha goes, So bad as that? Tha'lt niver get into thy weddin' clothes At that rate--eh, theer goes thy hat; Ne'er mind, good-bye lad, now I lose My joy, God knows, --An' worse nor that.

The road goes under the apple tree; Look, for I'm showin' thee summat. An' if it worn't for the mist, tha'd see The great black wood on all sides o' thee Wi' the little pads going cunningly To ravel thee. So listen, I'm tellin' thee summat.

When tha comes to the beechen avenue, I'm warnin' thee o' summat. Mind tha shall keep inwards, a few Steps to the right, for the gravel pits Are steep an' deep wi' watter, an' you Are scarce o' your wits. Remember, I've warned the o' summat.

An' mind when crossin' the planken bridge, Again I warn ye o' summat. Ye slip not on the slippery ridge Of the thawin' snow, or it'll be A long put-back to your gran' marridge, I'm tellin' ye. Nay, are ter scared o' summat?

In kep the thick black curtains drawn, Am I not tellin' thee summat? Against the knockin' of sevenfold dawn, An' red-tipped candles from morn to morn Have dipped an' danced upon thy brawn Till thou art worn-- Oh, I have cost thee summat.

Look in the mirror an' see thy-sen, --What, I am showin' thee summat. Wasted an' wan tha sees thy-sen, An' thy hand that holds the mirror shakes Till tha drops the glass and tha shudders when Thy luck breaks. Sure, tha'rt afraid o' summat.

Frail thou art, my saucy man, --Listen, I'm tellin' thee summat. Tottering and tired thou art, my man, Tha came to say good-bye to me, An' tha's done it so well, that now I can Part wi' thee. --Master, I'm givin' thee summat.

THE SCHOOLMASTER