Why ain't the Mester back?
Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours,
An' when he's finished wi' his labours,
He gallops off full crack!
I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear
While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.'
Them what's in towns has niver tried
To live aloan, all terrified;
They talk about churchyards at night,
Or things wi' chains dressed up in white:
Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep
In any place what made them creep!
Coz allers they've a friend about
To hear if they should give a shout!
They dunno what it is to fear
But--here--
_What's that?_
Only the cat!
An' she's as black as Death's own self,
She squats all loathly on yon shelf,
Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me
I wish the Devil--
No!
Not _He_!
I didn't mean to mention names,
Nor interfere wi' others gaames:
They saay as cats is really witches,
Like Betty Williamson, now dead,
What uster wear her husband's breeches
An' ate the queerest food, foak said;
She set beside her open door
Wi' one foot allers off the floor,
Quietly knitting; one eye cast
To overlook you as you passed;
An' just the same, yon nasty critter
Stares at me now that soft an' bitter!
Oh Dear! I wish my man would came!
May ague twist, an' strike him dumb!
May fairies nip his liver out
An' leave him nare a tongue to shout.
Forsaking me, all loansome here
With iverything what's wrong and queer.
From out my winder, where I sit
I see the willows round yon pit:
Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found
As some said,--accidental drowned!--
But I heard screechin', terrified,
About the time he must a died!
Having noa bottom, soa they say;
It's dreadful secrets there must stay
Until the Resurrection Day!
Oh where the Devil is that Tom?
I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam:
The wind is moanin' round that Pit
As if somebody wished to flit:
There's Things in there what stirs by night
An' if you see, yer hair turns white;
Around, they say, the Mandrake grows
What's pulled at dead of night by _those_
Who little care although it screams
To wake poor mortals from their dreams.
Our parson tells of Powers Evil:
(An' Providence can't beat the Devil)
Where should they laay, but in yon Pit?
What makes me squirl to think on it:
All gashly arms a-reachin' out
To clamber up yer water spout
An' reach you through--
Oh Lor!
_Who's that?_
'Tis something comin'
I hear _it_ hummin'....
My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him!
I was afraid of something grim--
I've bin a-wantin' you soa long--
You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong
Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed!
I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed:
'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead.