style="font-size:15px;"> I canna bide to think where he is gone.
Ah know tha liked ’im bett’r nor me. But let
Me tell thee about this lass. When you had gone
Ah stopped behind on t’ pad i’ th’ drippin wet
An’ watched what ’er ’ad on.
Tha should ha’ seed her slive up when we’d gone,
Tha should ha’ seed her kneel an’ look in
At th’ sloppy wet grave—an’ ’er little neck shone
That white, an’ ’er shook that much, I’d like to begin
Scraïghtin’ my-sen as well. ’En undid her black
Jacket at th’ bosom, an’ took from out of it
Over a double ’andful of violets, all in a pack
Ravelled blue and white—warm, for a bit
O’ th’ smell come waftin’ to me. ’Er put ’er face
Right intil ’em and scraïghted out again,
Then after a bit ’er dropped ’em down that place,
An’ I come away, because o’ the teemin’ rain.
Whether or Not
I
Dunna thee tell me its his’n, mother,
Dunna thee, dunna thee.
—Oh ay! he’ll be comin’ to tell thee his-sèn
Wench, wunna he?
Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
He’s gone wi that—
—My gel, owt’ll do for a man i’ the dark,
Tha’s got it flat.
But ’er’s old, mother, ’er’s twenty year
Older nor him—
—Ay, an’ yaller as a crowflower, an’ yet i’ the dark
Er’d do for Tim.
Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
It’s somebody’s lies.
—Ax him thy-sèn wench—a widder’s lodger;
It’s no surprise.
II
A widow of forty-five
With a bitter, swarthy skin,
To ha’ ’ticed a lad o’ twenty-five
An’ ’im to have been took in!
A widow of forty-five
As has sludged like a horse all her life,
Till ’er’s tough as whit-leather, to slive
Atween a lad an’ ’is wife!
A widow of forty-five.
A tough old otchel wi’ long
Witch teeth, an’ ’er black hawk-eyes as I’ve
Mistrusted all along!
An’ me as ’as kep my-sen
Shut like a daisy bud,
Clean an’ new an’ nice, so’s when
He wed he’d ha’e summat good!
An’ ’im as nice an’ fresh
As any man i’ the force,
To ha’e gone an’ given his white young flesh
To a woman that coarse!
III
You’re stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
Are you makin’ Brinsley way?
—I’m off up th’ line to Underwood
Wi’ a dress as is wanted to-day.
Oh are you goin’ to Underwood?
’Appen then you’ve ’eered?
—What’s that as ’appen I’ve ’eered-on, Missis,
Speak up, you nedna be feared.
Why, your young man an’ Widow Naylor,
Her as he lodges wi’,
They say he’s got her wi’ childt; but there,
It’s nothing to do wi’ me.
Though if it’s true they’ll turn him out
O’ th’ p’lice force, without fail;
An’ if it’s not true, I’d back my life
They’ll listen to her tale.
Well, I’m believin’ no tale, Missis,
I’m seein’ for my-sen;
An’ when I know for sure, Missis,
I’ll talk then.
IV
Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna
Sit noddin’ thy head at me;
My breast’s as red as thine, I reckon,
Flayed red, if tha could but see.
Nay, you blessed pee-whips,
You nedna screet at me!
I’m screetin’ my-sen, but are-na goin’
To let iv’rybody see.
Tha art smock-ravelled, bunny, Larropin’ neck an’ crop I’ th’ snow: but I’s warrant thee, bunny, I’m further ower
