| |
| THEY had long met o’ Zundays—her true love and she— | |
| And at junketings, maypoles, and flings; | |
| But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and he | |
| Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be | |
| Naibor Sweatley—a gaffer oft weak at the knee | 5 |
| From taking o’ sommat more cheerful than tea— | |
| Who tranted, and moved people’s things. | |
| |
| She cried, “O pray pity me!” Nought would he hear; | |
| Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed, | |
| She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi’ her. | 10 |
| The pa’son was told, as the season drew near | |
| To throw over pu’pit the names of the peäir | |
| As fitting one flesh to be made. | |
| |
| The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on; | |
| The couple stood bridegroom and bride; | 15 |
| The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone | |
| The folks horned out, “God save the King,” and anon | |
| The two home-along gloomily hied. | |
| |
| The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear | |
| To be thus of his darling deprived: | 20 |
| He roamed in the dark ath’art field, mound, and mere, | |
| And, a’most without knowing it, found himself near | |
| The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear, | |
| Where the lantern-light showed ’em arrived. | |
| |
| The bride sought her cham’er so calm and so pale | 25 |
| That a Northern had thought her resigned; | |
| But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal, | |
| Like the white cloud o’ smoke, the red battlefield’s vail, | |
| That look spak’ of havoc behind. | |
| |
| The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain, | 30 |
| Then reeled to the linhay for more, | |
| When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain— | |
| Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi’ might and wi’ main, | |
| And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar. | |
| |
| Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light, | 35 |
| Through brimble and underwood tears, | |
| Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright | |
| In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi’ fright, | |
| Wi’ on’y her night-rail to screen her from sight, | |
| His lonesome young Barbree appears. | 40 |
| |
| Her cwold little figure half-naked he views | |
| Played about by the frolicsome breeze, | |
| Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, | |
| All bare and besprinkled wi’ Fall’s chilly dews, | |
| While her great gallied eyes, through her hair hanging loose, | 45 |
| Sheened as stars through a tardle o’ trees. | |
| |
| She eyed en; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn, | |
| Her tears, penned by terror afore, | |
| With a rushing of sobs in a shower were strawn, | |
| Till her power to pour ’em seemed wasted and gone | 50 |
| From the heft o’ misfortune she bore. | |
| |
| “O Tim, my own Tim I must call ’ee—I will! | |
| All the world ha’ turned round on me so! | |
| Can you help her who loved ’ee, though acting so ill? | |
| Can you pity her misery—feel for her still? | 55 |
| When worse than her body so quivering and chill | |
| Is her heart in its winter o’ woe! | |
| |
| “I think I mid almost ha’ borne it,” she said, | |
| “Had my griefs one by one come to hand; | |
| But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread, | 60 |
| And then, upon top o’ that, driven to wed, | |
| And then, upon top o’ that, burnt out o’ bed, | |
| Is more than my nater can stand!” | |
| |
| Tim’s soul like a lion ’ithin en outsprung— | |
| (Tim had a great soul when his feelings were wrung)— | 65 |
| “Feel for ’ee, dear Barbree?” he cried; | |
| And his warm working-jacket about her he flung, | |
| Made a back, horsed her up, till behind him she clung | |
| Like a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphung | |
| By the sleeves that around her he tied. | 70 |
| |
| Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and hay, | |
| They lumpered straight into the night; | |
| And finding bylong where a halter-path lay, | |
| At dawn reached Tim’s house, on’y seen on their way | |
| By a naibor or two who were up wi’ the day; | 75 |
| But they gathered no clue to the sight. | |
| |
| Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there | |
| For some garment to clothe her fair skin; | |
| But though he had breeches and waistcoats to spare, | |
| He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to wear, | 80 |
| Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried on a chair | |
| At the caddle she found herself in. | |
| |
| There was one thing to do, and that one thing he did, | |
| He lent her some clouts of his own, | |
| And she took ’em perforce; and while in ’em she slid, | 85 |
| Tim turned to the winder, as modesty bid, | |
| Thinking, “O that the picter my duty keeps hid | |
| To the sight o’ my eyes mid be shown!” | |
| |
| In the tallet he stowed her; there huddied she lay, | |
| Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her limbs; | 90 |
| But most o’ the time in a mortal bad way, | |
| Well knowing that there’d be the divel to pay | |
| If ’twere found that, instead o’ the elements’ prey, | |
| She was living in lodgings at Tim’s. | |
| |
| “Where’s the tranter?” said men and boys; “where can er be?” | 95 |
| “Where’s the tranter?” said Barbree alone. | |
| “Where on e’th is the tranter?” said everybod-y: | |
| They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree, | |
| And all they could find was a bone. | |
| |
| Then the uncle cried, “Lord, pray have mercy on me!” | 100 |
| And in terror began to repent. | |
| But before ’twas complete, and till sure she was free, | |
| Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned her key— | |
| Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and tea— | |
| Till the news of her hiding got vent. | 105 |
| |
| Then followed the custom-kept rout, shout, and flare | |
| Of a skimmington-ride through the naiborhood, ere | |
| Folk had proof o’ wold Sweatley’s decay. | |
| Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare, | |
| Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and pair: | 110 |
| So he took her to church. An’ some laughing lads there | |
| Cried to Tim, “After Sweatley!” She said, “I declare | |
I stand as a maiden to-day!”
Written 1866; printed 1875. | |
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