At the feäst, I do mind very well, all the vo’ks
Wer a-took in a happerèn storm,
But we chaps took the maïdens, an’ kept em wi’ clokes
Under shelter, all dry an’ all warm;
An’ to my lot vell Jeäne, that’s my bride,
That did titter, a-hung at my zide;
Zaid her aunt, “Why the vo’k ‘ull talk finely o’ you,”
An’, cried she, “I don’t ceäre if they do.”
When the time o’ the feäst wer ageän a-come round,
An’ the vo’k wer a-gather’d woonce mwore,
Why she guess’d if she went there, she’d soon be a-vound
An’ a-took seäfely hwome to her door.
Zaid her mother, “‘Tis sure to be wet.”
Zaid her cousin, “‘T’ull raïn by zunzet.”
Zaid her aunt, “Why the clouds there do look black an’ blue,”
An’ zaid she, “I don’t ceäre if they do.”
An’ at last, when she own’d I mid meäke her my bride,
Vor to help me, an’ sheäre all my lot,
An’ wi’ faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide,
Though my waÿ mid be happy or not.
Zaid her naïghbours, “Why wedlock’s a clog,
An’ a wife’s a-tied up lik’ a dog.”
Zaid her aunt, “You’ll vind trials enough vor to rue,”
An’, zaid she, “I don’t ceäre if I do.”
* * * * *
Now she’s married, an’ still in the midst ov her tweils
She’s as happy’s the daylight is long,
She do goo out abroad wi’ her feäce vull o’ smiles,
An’ do work in the house wi’ a zong.
An’, zays woone, “She don’t grieve, you can tell.”
Zays another, “Why, don’t she look well!”
Zays her aunt, “Why the young vo’k do envy you two,”
An’, zays she, “I don’t ceäre if they do.”
Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode,
Though the storm do beät down on my poll,
There’s a wife-brighten’d vier at the end o’ my road,
An’ her love vor the jaÿ o’ my soul.
Out o’ door I wi’ rogues mid be tried:
Out o’ door be brow-beäten wi’ pride;
Men mid scowl out o’ door, if my wife is but true–
Let em scowl, “I don’t ceäre if they do.”
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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