The Church-Warden And The Curate
By Alfred Lord Tennyson
I.
Eh? good day! good day! thaw it bent not mooch of a day,
Nasty, casselty (1) weather! an mea Hafe down wi my hay! (2)
II.
How be the farm gittin on? noways. Gittin on ideed!
Why, tonups was Hafe on em fingers an toas, (3) an the mare brokken-kneed,
An pigs didnt sell at fall, (4) an wa lost wer Haldeny cow,
An it bets ma to knaw wot she died on, but wools looking oop ony how.
III.
An so theyve made tha a parson, an thoull git along, niver fear,
Fur I ben chuch-warden mysen i the parish fur fifteen year.
Wellsin ther be chuch-wardens, ther mun be parsons an all,
An if tne stick alongside tuther (5) the chuch went happen a fall.
IV.
Fur I wur a Baptis wonst, an agen the toithe an the rate,
Till I fun (6) that it warnt not the gainist (7) way to the narra Gate.
An I cant aber em, I cant, fur a lot on em coomd ta-year (8)
I wur down wi the rheumatis thento my pond to wesh thessens theere
Sa I sticks like the ivin (9) as long as I lives to the owd chuch now,
Fur they weshd their sins i my pond, an I doubts they poisond the cow.
V.
Ay, an ya seed the Bishop. They says at he coomd fra nowt
Burn i trade. Sa I warrants e niver said hafe wot e thowt,
But e creept an e crawld along, till e feeld e could howd is on,
Then e married a gret Yerls darter, an sits o the Bishops throan.
VI.
Now Ill gie the a bit o my mind an tha weant be taakin offence,
Fur thou be a big scholard now wi a hoonderd hacre o sense
But sich an obstropulous (10) ladnaay, naayfur I minds tha sa well,
Thad niver not hopple (11) thy tongue, an the tongues sit afire o Hell,
As I says to my missis to-day, when she hurld a plate at the cat
An anoother agen my nose. Ya was niver sa bad as that.
VII.
But I minds when i Howlaby beck won day ya was ticklin o trout,
An keeper e seed ya an roond, an e beald (12) to ya Lad coom hout
An ya stood oop nakt i the beck, an ya telld im to knaw his awn place
An ye calld im a clown, ya did, an ya thrawd the fish i is face,
An e tornd (13) as red as a stag-tuckeys (14) wattles, but theer an then
I combd im down, fur I promised yad niver not do it agen.
VIII.
An I cotchd tha wonst i my garden, when thou was a height-year-howd, (15)
An I fun thy pockets as full o my pippins as iver theyd owd, (16)
An thou was as perky (17) as owt, an tha made me as mad as mad,
But I says to the keep em, an welcome fur thou was the Parsons lad.
IX.
An Parson e ears on it all, an then takes kindly to me,
An then I wur chose Chuch-warden an coomd to the top o the tree,
Fur Quolotys hall my friends, an they makes ma a help to the poor,
When I gits the plate fuller o Soondays nor ony chuch-warden afoor,
Fur if iver thy feythered riled me I kep mysen meek as a lamb,
An saw by the Grace o the Lord, Mr. Harry, I ham wot I ham.
X.
But Parson e will spek out, saw, now e be sixty-seven,
Hell niver swap Owlby an Scratby fur owt but the Kingdom o Heaven:
An thouII be is Curate ere, but, if iver tha mens to git igher,
The mun tackle the sins o the Wold, (18) an not the faults o the Squire.
An I reckons thall light of a livin some-wheers i the Wowd (19) or the Fen,
If tha cottons down to thy betters, an keeps thysen to thysen.
But niver not spek plain out, if tha wants to git forrards a bit,
But creep along the hedge-bottoms, an thoull be a Bishop yit.
XI.
Nay, but tha mun spek hout to the Baptises here i the town,
Fur most on em talks agen tithe, an Id like the to prech em down,
Fur theyve bin a-prechin mea down, they heve, an I hates em now,
Fur they leved their nasty sins i my pond, an it poisond the cow.