Ah! good Meäster Gwillet, that you mid ha’ know’d,
Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an’ went little abroad:
An’ if he got in among strangers, he velt
His poor heart in a twitter, an’ ready to melt;
Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met
Wi’ zome maïdens a-titt’rèn, he burn’d wi’ a het,
That shot all drough the lim’s o’n, an’ left a cwold zweat,
The poor little chap wer so shy,
He wer ready to drap, an’ to die.
But at last ‘twer the lot o’ the poor little man
To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can;
An’ ‘twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell
Sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well;
An’ woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote
Woone another, an’ then wi’ a struggle he bro’t
A vew vords to his tongue, wi’ some mwore in his droat.
But she, ‘ithout doubt, could soon vind
Vrom two words that come out, zix behind.
Zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilèn an’ kind,
Why he wrote her zome laïns, vor to tell her his mind,
Though ‘twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy,
To be married in church, wi’ a crowd stannèn by.
But he twold her woone day, “I have housen an’ lands,
We could marry by licence, if you don’t like banns,”
An’ he cover’d his eyes up wi’ woone ov his han’s,
Vor his head seem’d to zwim as he spoke,
An’ the aïr look’d so dim as a smoke.
Well! he vound a good naïghbour to goo in his pleäce
Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feäce.
An’ when he went up vor to put in the banns,
He did sheäke in his lags, an’ did sheäke in his han’s.
Then they ax’d vor her neäme, an’ her parish or town,
An’ he gi’ed em a leaf, wi’ her neäme a-wrote down;
Vor he coulden ha’ twold em outright, vor a poun’,
Vor his tongue wer so weak an’ so loose,
When he wanted to speak ‘twer noo use.
Zoo they went to be married, an’ when they got there
All the vo’k wer a-gather’d as if ‘twer a feäir,
An’ he thought, though his pleäce mid be pleazèn to zome,
He could all but ha’ wish’d that he hadden a-come.
The bride wer a-smilèn as fresh as a rwose,
An’ when he come wi’ her, an’ show’d his poor nose.
All the little bwoys shouted, an’ cried “There he goes,”
“There he goes.” Oh! vor his peärt he velt
As if the poor heart o’n would melt.
An’ when they stood up by the chancel together,
Oh! a man mid ha’ knock’d en right down wi’ a veather,
He did veel zoo asheäm’d that he thought he would rather
He wërden the bridegroom, but only the father.
But, though ’tis so funny to zee en so shy,
Yeet his mind is so lowly, his aïms be so high,
That to do a meän deed, or to tell woone a lie,
You’d vind that he’d shun mwore by half,
Than to stan’ vor vo’ks fun, or their laugh.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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