VIII

'An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt,

Stook to his taaïl they 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 fur luvv.

IX

Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too,

Maakin' 'em goä togither as they've good right

to do.

Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by?

Naäy-fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason why.

X

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.

1 Or fow-welter'd,-said of a sheep lying on its back.

Woä then, proputty, wiltha?—an ass as near as mays nowt

Woä then, wiltha? dangtha!-the bees is as fell

as owt.2

XI

Break 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.

XII

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breäks into 'ouses an' steäls,

Them as 'as coäts 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.

XIII

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; leästways 'is munny was 'id.

But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issén deäd, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did.

XIV

Loook 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 leave the land to thee.

XV

Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick;

But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick.

Coom oop, proputty, proputty-that's what I 'ears 'im saäy—

Proputty, proputty, proputty-canter an' canter

awaäy.

THE DAISY

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine,
In lands of palm and southern pine;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.

What Roman strength Turbìa show'd
In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.

How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters, That only heaved with a summer swell.

What slender campanili grew

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.

How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove,

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim;
Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto,
And drank, and loyally drank to him.

Nor knew we well what pleased us most,
Not the clipt palm of which they boast;
But distant colour, happy hamlet,
A moulder'd citadel on the coast,

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen
A light amid its olives green;
Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,

Where oleanders flush'd the bed
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;
And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten
Of ice, far up on a mountain head.

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold,
Those niched shapes of noble mould,
A princely people's awful princes,
The grave, severe Genovese of old.