GROWN UPS

It was a spell of sultry weather, There’d been no rain for weeks together, And little Timmy Taylor, A mouse of a man, Walked down the road With a big milk-can, Walked softly down the road at night When the stars were thick and the moon was bright. Hard by the road a spring came up To glimmer in a rare bright cup Of green-sward, burnt elsewhere quite dry. To this he came—we won’t ask why— Little Timmy Taylor, The mouse of a man, With a big milk-can. Then, as he turned, so goes the story— Came trooping through the moonlight glory Hundreds and scores of—what do you think? Rats! rats a-coming down to drink From granary and barn and stack, Grey and tawny, brown and black, Tails cocked up and teeth all gleaming, Beady eyes light-filled, and seeming That moony-mad and hunger-fierce. Little Timmy Taylor, The mouse of a man, Dropped the milk-can, And giving a shriek—’twas fit to pierce The ear o’ the dead—he ran away, And the can was found in the road next day.

“Aye, sure, it’s pretty fish, but there’s no sale Nowadays.” “Why?” “Well, the story that they tell Is, as the king were very fond on ’em, And all the fashion ate and paid up well. And then one day our king—so goes the tale— Ate over-hearty-like and throwed ’em up. So all the fashion with him when he dined Cut out their orders,—and the price cum down. And maybe that be true, for still in town Our council—scheming, likely, to remind His Majesty of joys he left behind— Sends un the very prince o’ lamprey pies (I’ve seen un many a while in Fisher’s winder) And so, God willing and if nothing hinder, Some day he’ll taste again and prices rise.”

Sometimes ’tis far off, and sometimes ’tis nigh, Such drummerdery noises too they be! ’Tis odd—oh, I do hope I baint to die Just as the summer months be coming on, And buffly chicken out, and bumble-bee: Though, to be sure, I cannot hear ’em plain For this drat row as goes a-drumming on, Just like a little soldier in my brain. And oh, I’ve heard we got to go through flame And water-floods—but maybe ’tisn’t true! I allus were a-frightened o’ the sea. And burning fires—oh, it would be a shame And all the garden ripe, and sky so blue. Such drummerdery noises, too, they be.

We heard as we wer passing by the forge: “’Er’s dead,” said he. “’Tis Providence’s doing,” so said George. “He’s allus doing summat,” so I said, “You see this pig; we kept un aal the year Fatting un up and priding in un, see, And spent a yup o’ money—food so dear! I wish ’twer ’e; I’d liefer our fat pig had died than she.”

Last fall, to sell his oldest perry, Old Willum Fry did cross the ferry, And thur inside of an old sty ’A seed a leanish pig did lie: A rakish, active beast ’a was As ever rooted up the grass: Eager as bees on making honey To stuff his self. Bill did decide To buy un with the cider money And fat un up for Easter-tide. He bought un, but no net ’ad got To kip thic pig inside the boat. “The’ll drown wi’ pig and all at ferry!” Cried one. Said Fry, “Go, bring some perry, And this old drinking-horn you got, Lying inside the piggery cot!” He poured a goodish swig and soon —As lazy as a day o’ June— Piggy lay boozed, and so did bide Snoring, while him and Fry were taken ’Cross Severn: and ’a didn’t waken Until the boat lay safely tied Up to a tree on t’other side.

This is the fourth ’un, Miss, and if so be As he do die out like the t’other three, I’ll take another man (if one do ask). Woman and man apart be like a cask Without a bung, letting Life’s cider out, The Almighty made to drink withouten doubt. I never could abode the thought o’ waste Whether of Life or cider, fit for taste. But love him, Miss, you ask?—why, that I can, And thank the Lord I could love any man.