Cornish Catches Part 1

Cornish Catches.

by Bernard Moore.

WELL, THERE 'TIS

Well, there 'tis. You wakes up cryin' an' callin', You'm cold an' hungered, an' skeered o' the turble dark; It feels most like a gert black cloud's a fallin'

To crunch you to nothin', an' leave you s.m.u.ttered an' stark.

But a kind hand comes when the gert black clouds would drownd you, An' a warm breast holds you tight to cuddle an' kiss, An' you know that the world o' Love be all around you.

Well! there 'tis.

Then you grows a bit, and you finds a mort o' pleasure In the rush o' the waves an' the roarin' wind in the sky; An' you plays your games at Pirates seekin' treasure, Or Penny-come-quick when the Breton Boys go by.

An' you don't much trouble at difrent kinds o' weather, If 'tis sunny 'tis sunny, but rain won't make you miss The chance to trample away thro' the moorland heather; Well! there 'tis.

But you keeps on growin', an' then you begin in a fashion To want some things you'd never a thought on before; An' you sees some eyes be blue, an' you gets a pa.s.sion For jest a very perticlar cottage door.

An' you don't feel tired at the end o' the day o' toilin'

So long as it ends with the sound an' song of a kiss, So long as it ends with arms round you coilin'; Well! there 'tis.

Then you grows old, an' at last you falls on sleepin'.

Do you count you'll be all alone in the turble dark?

Do you think you'll be left to the sound o' wailin' an' weepin'

Lonely an' cold in the cloam, unmothered an' stark?

When you was a baby, helpless an' cryin' an' callin'

Didn' the kind arms take, an' the warm lips kiss?

An' won't there be Arms at last, to save you from fallin'?

Well! there 'tis.

GARDENS

Pa.s.sun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty, He'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow; He'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns, An' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know.

Squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden, With hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun; He likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches, An' thinks as what the pa.s.sun grows the whishtest sort o' fun.

Feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers, For he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things; His cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder, An' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings!

But I've a finer garden than the squire or the pa.s.sun; 'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains.

There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the gra.s.s, An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pa.s.s.

An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills.

So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', An' pa.s.sun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine.

GROCERY

John Pengelly be a clever man, An' he keeps a grocery store; He've got a seat on the Burryin' Board, An' a sow as turns three score; On Sunday night he holds the plate An' on Thursday shuts at four.

He talks to Pa.s.son on clover crops, An' Farmer Hain on Sin; An' keeps the Parish Register, An' a dog that isn' thin; An' wears a watch-chain on his chest, An' a Moses beard on his chin.

He allays takes the rhubarb prize At the Flower Show every year; An' if 'ee mind to order it He'll get 'ee Bottled Beer; (Though some as don't agree with that) Besides it's rather dear.

Two different kinds of lard he sells, But awnly one of tay; An' he've a yaller oilskin coat He hopes to sell some day, But the awnly man it might have fit Was drownded out to say.

His matches hang in a cabbage net, An' his onions hang in strings; An' allays at the Church Bazaar He sells the Hooplar rings; An' if us get a concert up An' there's no one else, _he_ sings.

So be you'm seekin' clever men, Come down along o' we; We'll show 'ee John Pengelly then Behind his grocery; An' when you taste his peppermints, Sure 'nuff, tis mazed you'll be.

EDDICATION

Feyther sez as "Larnin' be the proper trade for boys,"

An' so us have to go to school, an' dursn't make a noise, But jest sits on a form an' hears what schoolmaister do say, An' all the time we'm thinkin' how the boats go in the bay.

There's different kinds o' larnin', an' there's some I can't abide, They'm worse than swimmin' round the Main at ebbin' o' the tide.

I likes the tales o' travels an' at readin' do be praised, An' I'm dacent doin' Adders, but Goseinters send me mazed.

The Bible stories baint so bad excep' the fat head calf, An' when schoolmaister tells of 'ee I allays wants to laugh; Our Kitty likes the donkeys as was found by Sunno Kish, But I likes best the tale about Ole Peter an' the fish.

Schoolmaister knaws a mort o' things as baint a bit o' use; I've heered un tell the biggest boys about high potty mews; But if he had to earn his bread, the same as feyther do, I count he'd soon belong to know it wasn' much he knew.

One day he gave a sum about a herrin' an' a half, An' sez as how the boys was rude when they began to laugh; He must a been a bufflehead to think as people bought _Half_ herrins, when we'm bringin' 'em by thousans into port.

I'm allays sittin' thinkin' when he'm talkin' to the board, About the many things there be a boy can larn aboard; There's sheets to haul an' gear to staw an' reefs to take an' tie, An' wind to watch acomin' in the corner of your eye.

Now if they larned us some o' these, or how to bend a hook, 'Twould be a darned sight usefuller than rubbige in a book; But what's the good o' larnin' how to hold a scriggley pen, An' spell a lot of orkard words, an' say to ten times ten?

'Tis little use to grumble when 'ee have to keep the rules, An' jest so long as there be boys, I count there must be schools; An' tho' they'm good for larnin' if 'ee awnly knaws the way, I'd sooner be a whifflin' arter mack'rel in the bay.

JENNY

When Jenny goes a milkin' in the dewy time o' morn I allays be contrivin' to be callin' at the farm, For her cheeks be red as roses an' her hair like rippled corn, An' I be fairly mazed to kiss the dimple on her arm.