Modes of Courtship. Devonshire Hob’s Love
JOANNY, my dear, wut ha poor HOB? Vor I'm upon a coortin job— Gadswunds! Iss leek thee, Joan; I'd fert vor thee — Iss, that Iss wud; Iss love thee well, as pigs love mud, Or dogs to gna a bone. What thoff Iss ban't so hugeous smurt, Forsooth leek voaks that go to curt; Voakes zay I'm perty vitty: Lord, Joan, a man may be alive, Ha a long puss, and kep a wive, That ne'er zeed Lundun zitty. A man may ha the best o' hearts, Although no chitterlins to's shart; And lace that gentry uze; Theed'st vend me honest — Iss, rert down, Altho' thee hadsn't got a gown, Ner stockings vath ner shooze. Now, JOANNY, pr'ythee dant now blish; Vor zich, Iss wudd'n gee a rish; Dant copy voakes o' town: No, JOAN, dant gee thy zel an air, And ren and quat, just leek a hare, And think I'll hunt thee down. No, that' dam voalilsh, let me zay; No — dant ren off, and heed away, Leek paltriges in stubble: No, no, the easiest means be best; Iss can't turmoil, an looze one's rest; Iss can't avoard the trouble. Now JOAN, beleek, thee waantst to know About my houze-keepin and zo, Bevore thee tak'st the hooze— Why vlesh an dumplin ev'ry day; But az vor Zunday, let me zay, We'll ha a gud vat gooze. Zumtimes we'll ha a choice squab pie; And zum days we wull broil and vry, And zum days roast, ye slut; An az vor Zyder, thee shat guzzle, Zo much, JOAN, as will tire thy muzzle, Enow to splet thy gut. Now break thy meend, zay "dun, an dun;" I'll make thee a good husband, mun; And JOAN, I'll love thee dearly; Iss waant do leek our neighbour FLAIL, That huffth his wive, and kickth her tail, And drashth her just leek barely. JOANNY, Iss now have broke my meend; Zo speak, and let the bisness eend, And dant stand shilly shally; But if thee wutt'n — Lord, lay't alone; Go hang thy zel vor me, mun, JOAN, I'll curt thy zester Mally.
John Wolcot’s other poems:
