Second Collection. Gammony Gaÿ
Oh! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll, That if he’s at hwome by the he’th, Or wi’ vo’k out o’ door, he’s the soul O’ the meetèn vor antics an’ me’th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water’s a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naïghbours would cry— He do laugh where the rest o’s would sigh: Noo other’s so merry o’ feäce, In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ. An’ o’ workèn days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t— Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his heäir, An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t; An’ a cwoat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An’ a peäir o’ girt pockets lik’ bags, That do swing an’ do bob at his lags: While me’th do walk out drough the pleäce, In the feäce o’ Gammony Gaÿ. An’ if he do goo over groun’ Wi’ noo soul vor to greet wi’ his words, The feäce o’n do look up an’ down, An’ round en so quick as a bird’s; An’ if he do vall in wi’ vo’k, Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, If he don’t zend em on vrom the pleäce Wi’ a smile or a grin on their feäce: An’ the young wi’ the wold have a-heärd A kind word vrom Gammony Gaÿ. An’ when he do whissel or hum, ’Ithout thinkèn o’ what he’s a-doèn, He’ll beät his own lags vor a drum, An’ bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn; An’ then you mid zee, ’etween whiles, His feäce all alive wi’ his smiles, An’ his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise, An’ his me’th do sheen out ov his eyes: An’ at last to have praïse or have bleäme, Is the seäme to Gammony Gaÿ. When he drove his wold cart out, an’ broke The nut o’ the wheel at a butt, There war “woo’se things,” he cried, wi’ a joke, “To grieve at than crackèn a nut.” An’ when he tipp’d over a lwoad Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, Then he spet in his han’s, out o’ sleeves, An’ whissel’d, an’ flung up his sheaves, As very vew others can wag, Eärm or lag, but Gammony Gaÿ. He wer wi’ us woone night when the band Wer a-come vor to gi’e us a hop, An’ he pull’d Grammer out by the hand All down drough the dance vrom the top; An’ Grammer did hobble an’ squall, Wi’ Gammon a-leädèn the ball; While Gammon did sheäke up his knee An’ his voot, an’ zing “Diddle-ee-dee!” An’ we laugh’d ourzelves all out o’ breath At the me’th o’ Gammony Gaÿ. When our tun wer’ o’ vier he rod Out to help us, an’ meäde us sich fun, Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad O’ wet thorns, to the he’th, vrom the tun; An’ there he did stamp wi’ his voot, To push down the thorns an’ the zoot, Till at last down the chimney’s black wall Went the wad, an’ poor Gammon an’ all: An’ seäfe on the he’th, wi’ a grin On his chin pitch’d Gammony Gaÿ. All the house-dogs do waggle their taïls, If they do but catch zight ov his feäce; An’ the ho’ses do look over raïls, An’ do whicker to zee’n at the pleäce; An’ he’ll always bestow a good word On a cat or a whisselèn bird; An’ even if culvers do coo, Or an owl is a-cryèn “Hoo, hoo,” Where he is, there’s always a joke To be spoke, by Gammony Gaÿ.
William Barnes’s other poems:
