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قراءة كتاب Cornish Catches, and Other Verses
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
Callington Fair; There was very much less than an inch between Jenny an' me in the Kittereen For wasn' we both of us turned nineteen? An' wasn' there Love to share?
MAIDS
I've knawed a many o' Devon maids with cheeks merry an' red, They'm pleasant an' 'ansum single, an' homely an' cosy wed; But I shan't marry a Devon maid; I reckon I'd rather be dead.
I've seed a many o' London maids abroad in London Town; They'm larky an' flittery single, but marryin' calms 'em down; But I shan't marry a London maid; I reckon I'd rather drown.
For I have knawed the Cornish maids, an' like 'em best of any. So take the London an' Devon maids, they'm goin' at two a penny; An' I shan't marry nobody else, for I be tokened to Jenny.
CAP'N JOHN
Cap'n John has been to Frisky, Injy an' Australy too; Now he runs a lug-an'-mizzen Arter Pilchers out o' Looe, Iss, he do.
Cap'n John was braave an' slippey Till the say catched hold of he; Now he'm tanned an' tough an' wrinkled, Simming like mohogany. Iss, he be.
Cap'n John baint smurt an' 'ansum, Like a claned up Sarvice Coor; Stiff hair all aroun' his niddick Makes him like a hedgaboor. Iss, be Gor!
Cap'n John don't boast o' beauty, Beauty don't set down with tar; But he've got a pair o' patches Shows how dacent patches are. Iss, with tar.
Cap'n John thinks books is rubbige; Sez that printin' spoils his eyes; But he reads the book o' weather Written in the say an' skies; Iss, he's wise.
Cap'n John, us looks towards 'ee, Wish 'ee luck when shuttin' seine, Wish 'ee tummals at the jowstin', Wish 'ee out an' home again. Clink you'm cider at the call, "Cap'n John, an' One an' All."
DOLLY PENTREATH
Dolly Pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to Paul; But Dolly Pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of One and All. Her smoked an' snuffed, an' the cusses her knowed was mortal hard to bate, But her carried her creel like a Mousehole maid, an' allays selled out her cate.
Her wern't afeerd at livin' alone, an' many a tale is told, As shows as how her face was brass, but her heart was true as gold. One day a sailor had tooked his leave afore his leave was given, An' knowed if they catched him the yard arm rope would show him the way to Heaven,
So he scatted to Dolly, an' jest in time her thought of the chimley wide, An' her collared him hold by the slack of his breeks an' shoved him up inside. Cussin' an' fussin' they searchers came, but awnly Dolly they sees, Washin' her feet in her old oak keeve, with her petticoat up to her knees.
An' didn' her give them a tang o' tongue, an' didn' her cuss them sweet, For thinkin' her'd let a man bide there an' see her washin' her feet? But her called the loudest cusses of all, an' scraiched like a rat at a stoat, When the sailor gave a chokely cough for the fuzzen smoke in his throat.
The storm her raised drove the buffleheads out a grumpling into the street, An' the sailor washed hisself in the keeve where Dolly had washed her feet.
* * * * Dolly Pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to Paul; But Dolly Pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of One and All.
SUNDAY IN THE CORNISH PORT
There b'aint no fishin' in the bay, The boats be moored 'longside the kay, With sails reefed in an' stawed away, An' all so calm an' still— Excep' the ripple o' the tide, An' gulls awheelin' up 'longside The clifts, to where the Church do bide Atop the Flag-staff Hill.
Above the Slip where boats be moored The cottage doors be set abroad, An' singin' voices praise the Lord For mercies which endure; An' happy childer in the street, Dressed all so vitty, clane, an' neat, Puts somethin' in the music sweet It didn' had before.
Now every fisherman be dressed In shiny suit o' black for best, As fittin' to the Day o' Rest, An' sign o' Death to Sin; The jerseys in the lockers bide, For Sunday knaws its proper pride, An' likes to show a clane outside To match the heart within.
Mid mornin', Church bell clangs a call. An' some don't take no heed at all, But some goes up the hill to Paul, An' some to Chapel goes; Whilst some strolls down upon the kay, An' sits an' spits into the say; But all the same, they knaws the Day, An' doesn' dirt their clo'es.
But whether Church be right or b'aint, Or Mittin' Houses make'ee faint, Or whether you'm a solemn saint Or jest a cheerful sinner, For sartin, not so long by noon, You'll