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Best Famous Farm Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Farm poems. This is a select list of the best famous Farm poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Farm poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of farm poems.

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by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

Paul Reveres Ride

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm.
" Then he said "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, -- A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now load on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock, When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest.
In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

The Fire of Drift-Wood

We sat within the farm-house old,
  Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
  An easy entrance, night and day.
Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.
Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again.
The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within.


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

Meeting at Night

        I.
The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!


by Wang Wei | |

A FARM-HOUSE ON THE WEI RIVER

In the slant of the sun on the country-side, 
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; 
And a rugged old man in a thatch door 
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants? full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly.
.
.
.
No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again!


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Goblin Revel

IN gold and grey with fleering looks of sin 
I watch them come; by two by three by four 
Advancing slow with loutings they begin
Their woven measure widening from the door;
While music-men behind are straddling in 5
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor ¡ª
And jangled dulcimers and fiddles thin
That taunt the twirling antic through once more.
They pause and hushed to whispers steal away.
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon 10 On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they Have clambered back into the dusky moon That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

The Brook

 I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorpes, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

The Grandmother

 I.
And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy's wife has written: she never was over-wise, Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.
II.
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!--but he would n't hear me--and Willy, you say, is gone.
III.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.
`Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.
IV.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue! I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.
V.
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
VI.
For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe, Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
VII.
For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell.
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar! But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.
VIII.
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
IX.
And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.
X.
And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.
XI.
All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm, Willy,--he did n't see me,--and Jenny hung on his arm.
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; Ah, there's no fool like the old one -- it makes me angry now.
XII.
Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.
And I said, `Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same, You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.
' XIII.
And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine: Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well of ill; But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.
' XIV.
`Marry you, Willy!' said I, `but I needs must speak my mind, And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.
' But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, `No, love, no;' Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
XV.
So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown.
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
XVI.
That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death.
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath.
I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life.
XVII.
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain: I look'd at the still little body--his trouble had all been in vain.
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn: But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.
XVIII.
But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay: Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way: Never jealous--not he: we had many a happy year; And he died, and I could not weep--my own time seem'd so near.
XIX.
But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died: I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.
XX.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.
XXI.
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too--they sing to their team: Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed-- I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.
XXII.
And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five: And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten; I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men.
XXIII.
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve; I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve: And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.
XXIV.
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad: But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease; And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.
XXV.
And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again.
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
XXVI.
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,-- Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next; I, too, shall go in a minute.
What time have I to be vext? XXVII.
And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

Audley Court

 ‘The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d, and not a room
For love or money.
Let us picnic there At Audley Court.
’ I spoke, while Audley feast Humm’d like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea.
‘With all my heart,’ Said Francis.
Then we shoulder’d thro’ the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn.
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp’d The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach’d The griffin-guarded gates, and pass’d thro’ all The pillar’d dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross’d the garden to the gardener’s lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine.
There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father’s vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And talk’d old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: Then touch’d upon the game, how scarce it was This season; glancing thence, discuss’d the farm, The four-field system, and the price of grain; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh’d aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang– ‘Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell’d up into some bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life.
‘Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch’d like a crow upon a three-legg’d stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk? but let me live my life.
‘Who’d serve the state? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all: but let me live my life.
‘Oh! who would love? I woo’d a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn’d from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea; but let me live my life.
’ He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock’d down to me, when old Sir Robert’s pride, His books–the more the pity, so I said– Came to the hammer here in March–and this– I set the words, and added names I knew.
‘Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me: Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister’s arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine.
‘Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia’s arm; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is.
‘Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.
‘I go, but I return: I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream.
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.
’ So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer’s son, who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere, Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And saunter’d home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush’d beneath us: lower down The bay was oily calm; the harbour-buoy, Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

The Progress of Spring

 THE groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould, 
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea, 
Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold 
That trembles not to kisses of the bee: 
Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves 
The spear of ice has wept itself away, 
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves 
O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.
She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run; The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair; Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun, Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bar To breaths of balmier air; Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her, About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays, Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker, The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze, While round her brows a woodland culver flits, Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks, And in her open palm a halcyon sits Patient--the secret splendour of the brooks.
Come Spring! She comes on waste and wood, On farm and field: but enter also here, Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my blood, And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere, Lodge with me all the year! Once more a downy drift against the brakes, Self-darken'd in the sky, descending slow! But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow.
These will thine eyes not brook in forest-paths, On their perpetual pine, nor round the beech; They fuse themselves to little spicy baths, Solved in the tender blushes of the peach; They lose themselves and die On that new life that gems the hawthorn line; Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by, And out once more in varnish'd glory shine Thy stars of celandine.
She floats across the hamlet.
Heaven lours, But in the tearful splendour of her smiles I see the slowl-thickening chestnut towers Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles.
Now past her feet the swallow circling flies, A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet her hand; Her light makes rainbows in my closing eyes, I hear a charm of song thro' all the land.
Come, Spring! She comes, and Earth is glad To roll her North below thy deepening dome, But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad, And these low bushes dip their twigs in foam, Make all true hearths thy home.
Across my garden! and the thicket stirs, The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, The starling claps his tiny castanets.
Still round her forehead wheels the woodland dove, And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew, The kingcup fills her footprint, and above Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue.
Hail ample presence of a Queen, Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, Whose mantle, every shade of glancing green, Flies back in fragrant breezes to display A tunic white as May! She whispers, 'From the South I bring you balm, For on a tropic mountain was I born, While some dark dweller by the coco-palm Watch'd my far meadow zoned with airy morn; From under rose a muffled moan of floods; I sat beneath a solitude of snow; There no one came, the turf was fresh, the woods Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales below I saw beyond their silent tops The steaming marshes of the scarlet cranes, The slant seas leaning oll the mangrove copse, And summer basking in the sultry plains About a land of canes; 'Then from my vapour-girdle soaring forth I scaled the buoyant highway of the birds, And drank the dews and drizzle of the North, That I might mix with men, and hear their words On pathway'd plains; for--while my hand exults Within the bloodless heart of lowly flowers To work old laws of Love to fresh results, Thro' manifold effect of simple powers-- I too would teach the man Beyond the darker hour to see the bright, That his fresh life may close as it began, The still-fulfilling promise of a light Narrowing the bounds of night.
' So wed thee with my soul, that I may mark The coming year's great good and varied ills, And new developments, whatever spark Be struck from out the clash of warring wills; Or whether, since our nature cannot rest, The smoke of war's volcano burst again From hoary deeps that belt the changeful West, Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of men; Or should those fail, that hold the helm, While the long day of knowledge grows and warms, And in the heart of this most ancient realm A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms Sounding 'To arms! to arms!' A simpler, saner lesson might he learn Who reads thy gradual process, Holy Spring.
Thy leaves possess the season in their turn, And in their time thy warblers rise on wing.
How surely glidest thou from March to May, And changest, breathing it, the sullen wind, Thy scope of operation, day by day, Larger and fuller, like the human mind ' Thy warmths from bud to bud Accomplish that blind model in the seed, And men have hopes, which race the restless blood That after many changes may succeed Life, which is Life indeed.


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

Northern Farmer: New Style

 Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?
Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy.
Proputty, proputty, proputty--Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaïns: Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs, nor in all thy braaïns.
Woä--theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam; yon 's parson's 'ouse-- Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse? Time to think on it then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk.
Proputty, proputty--woä then, woä--let ma 'ear mysén speäk.
Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as been a'talkin' o' thee; Thou's beän talkin' to muther, an' she beän a tellin' it me.
Thou'll not marry for munny--thou's sweet upo' parson's lass-- Noä--thou 'll marry for luvv--an' we boäth of us thinks tha an ass.
Seeä'd her todaäy goä by--Saäint's-daäy--they was ringing the bells.
She's a beauty, thou thinks--an' soä is scoors o' gells, Them as 'as munny an' all--wot's a beauty?--the flower as blaws.
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws.
Do'ant be stunt; taäke time.
I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad.
Warn't I craäzed fur the lasses mysén when I wur a lad? But I knaw'd a Quaäker feller as often 'as towd ma this: "Doänt thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!" An' I went wheer munny war; an' thy muther coom to 'and, Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish bit o' land.
Maäybe she warn't a beauty--I niver giv it a thowt-- But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt? Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e 's deäd, Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle her breäd.
Why? for 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weänt niver get hissén clear, An' 'e maäde the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shere.
An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, Stook to his taäil thy did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet.
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noän to lend 'im a shuvv, Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married for luvv.
Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, Maäkin' 'em goä togither, as they've good right to do.
Couldn I luvv thy muther by cause 'o 'er munny laaïd by? Naäy--fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it: reäson why.
Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, Cooms of a gentleman burn: an' we boäth on us thinks tha an ass.
Woä then, proputty, wiltha?--an ass as near as mays nowt-- Woä then, wiltha? dangtha!--the bees is as fell as owt.
Breäk me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence! Gentleman burn! what's gentleman burn? is it shillins an' pence? Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it isn't the saäme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it 's the best.
Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steäls, Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taäkes their regular meäls, Noä, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl's to be 'ad.
Taäke my word for it Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.
Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot, Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got.
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastways 'is munny was 'id.
But 'e tued an' moil'd issén dead, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did.
Looök thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill! Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; An' I 'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou 'll live to see; And if thou marries a good un I 'll leäve the land to thee.
Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick; But if thou marries a bad un, I 'll leäve the land to Dick.
-- Coom oop, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'im saäy-- Proputty, proputty, proputty--canter an' canter awaäy.