Classic Poem

I

Wotcher doin' theer, Thomas? weshin' the pale
That be danged fer a tale! pop 'er out i' the nail
'Ere's a shower comin'. we'ant that wesh yer
A course it will: what's that? mester's down laane,
An' said you must 'ev it ready by 'e come back
'Arken to me, my lad!
I'm your mester: is that plaain?
Them as dudn't 'eed me, 'ez to pack
An' goa elsewhere and start all over agaain,
Soa let's 'ev noa more chelp. Pike off, young Buck
Into yon field of mangolds by the " Bain " .

II

Mornin' mester: Yis: we're goin' to 'ev a show
I telled young Thomas to pop your trap outside
Soa as the raain could wesh it fer an 'our.
What saay? Can 'e bide
To wesh the trap 'issen?
A course 'e can!
The mangolds in yon field can eeasy waait;
What's it matter if the weeds does choak 'em?
You can eeasy goa round wi' yer spud and poak 'em
Can I find another man?
Noa doubt I can!
I shall mebbe find one swingin' on a gaate,
Or purtendin' to be a scar'-crow in a gap;
We shan't stop short fer a man;
I could mek one wi' a 'taaty bag and some bran!
But we needn't bother about yon weeds;
Let 'em wait!
What saay? It dudn't matter about the trap?
Off wi' you, Thomas, to the mangolds, straight.

III

Under 'e goas, the mester, down the laane,
Tappin' 'is leggin's wi' 'is fancy caane,
'ead bent forrard, thinkin', noa doubt, as 'ow
all depends on ' im who follers the plough,
Why ... Bless yer 'eart!
knaws noa more about it than a baabe unborn,
ayther who's among the tonnups nor among the corn;
'E niver dreeams
Who 'ez the teeams;
H'ardly knaws one 'oss frum another;
I telled 'im as " Blossom " wor " Tinker's " brother
(What stands beside 'im in 'is stall),
I'd nod 'is 'ead:
That's all.

IV

E rides to th' 'ounds wi' 'is boots all shinin',
In cooat an' breeches wi' some fancy linin',
Got up like squire, an' all t'other kings,
Not botherin 'is 'ead about sich ornery things
As peeas or 'taates,
Or mendin' owd gaates;
E gallops awaay on " Prince William, " soa fine,
You'd niver believe as 'e'd wokked in 'is time;
To-night 'e'll be playin' at cards wi' the squire
While I shall be lottin' the wok, by the fire;
An' when, about five, we are feedin' the 'osses,
E'll slive inter bed to forgit all 'is losses.
When they asks 'im 'owever 'e 'raanges to do it
'E tells 'em it nobbut wants braains puttin' to it;
If it wodn't for me
Gittin' up about three,
All 'is braains wouldn't manage next 'arvest to see.

V

I do believe 'e thinks 'e knaws the waay,
Be nobbut ridin' ovver, once a daay,
To manage all the men, the crops, the land,
The forty thousand other things on hand
What needs a foreman's niver-sleepin' eyes.
I goas round to 'is winder, in the mornin',
Just when the sun be dawnin';
'E pops 'is 'ead out, lookin' wondrous wise:
" What'll the weather be like, Joe — Fair to middlin'?
" You'll start the reg'lar gang a 'taaty riddlin',
" Ow's my owd mare?
" The craws in yon far wheeat field needs attention,
" 'Ere's lots of other jobs I want to mention;
" If you can keep 'em busy fer a bit,
" I'll tell you laater, all the rest of it;
" Just now ... I think I'll git back inter bed. "
In goas 'is 'ead.
I set the men a plenty wok las' night;
My breakfas' mun be omost ready now,
I feel as thirsty as a one-eyed cow,
A glass or two of beer'll set me right.

VI

An' yit, ye know, the mester 'as some sense,
'E doan't rush like a bullock at a fence,
When straangers wants to buy or sell a hoss,
'E keeps one eye fixed fast on me all rate
Saavin' 'issen a mortal deeal o' loss.
A quiet nod or wink frum me goas straight,
I allers 'andles 'im the rate waay round
An' wouldn't pass a rick-backed 'oss fer sound,
No! Not for twenty tips of twenty pound.
Not all the money 'oarded round about
Would iver maak me sell our mester out;
What's more, 'e some'ow 'ez the sense to see,
It's better as I doan't 'ev to agree.
When I be in the rate, an 'e be wrong
'E maaks noa song,
Becoz 'e knaws I nivver meean 'im 'arm,
An' that's the secret 'ow to run a farm.

VII

Then 'ere's the Missis, bless 'er pretty face!
Think's she's that practical about the plaace,
Wi' chicken runs an' breeds of fancy 'ens,
An' cottage dreans an' " Doctorin' the caase "
(As if we couldn't manage for oursens!)
But she's that pleasant-faaced and oppen-'earted,
You can't say " No " , when once she's fairly started.
You niver mind
'Er oppenin' our little bedroom winders
Soa as our tender chests (she says) 'll 'arden!
Nor bonnin' our ole cloes an' things to cinders.
Nor tekkin' men awaay in 'arvest time
To milk 'er cows or dig the kitchen garden,
Or feed 'er 'ens on lime!
An' if she talks soa fast that we can't foller,
It's better'n some brazen trollop's 'oller
Like squire's wife, I niver could abide,
What allers wants to poak 'er noaz inside:
No! Our young missis does 'er level best,
Mebbe it ain't much good; but we doan't tell,
It 'elps to keep 'er quiet. For the rest,
If she knaws nowt ... perhaps ... it's just as well.

VIII

The secret of good foremen — like mysen —
Laays all in knawin' 'ow to treat yer men,
Moast on 'em's mortal bad; a few is good;
An' all on 'em 'ez 'eads like lumps o' wood,
You niver knaw what mischief'll be brewin'.
And wok's the last thing as you catch 'em doin'.
But our men ain't much chance to shirk,
'Coz I knaw what's a fair daay's work,
Good reeason why: I started low,
The jobs is few as I doan't know;
I know 'ow much a man can plough,
'Ow long it teks to milk a cow,
Who's gone an' done a fair daay's share,
Who's 'o'din' back and dudn't care,
Who wants a word of praaise to 'elp,
An' who wants sackin' fer 'is chelp.
Some men 'ud wok until they bost,
Others 'ud see you further fost;
Some on 'em tries to do what's right,
Others wants watchin' daay an' night;
When you knaw 'ow to manage men,
You're fit fer farmin' by yersen.

IX

But all as I've bin talkin' on is nowt,
'Ere's nobbut one thing matters — that's the land!
All other things is wo'thless — less than owt;
The land! I loves it! As I laays in bed
I can see ivery foot on it in me 'ead.
I knaw where ivery sheep an' bullock laays,
An' watches 'em in fancy where they graaze;
I knaw what watter stan's in ivery dyke,
Blindfold I'd take you anywhere you like;
Nowt graws nor moves but what I knaw about it,
What's done is by my leeave, nowt's done wi'out it;
I send the 'oss to plough, the man to hoe,
Nuthink can graw,
But I've the movin' an' the tendin' on it:
It's my farm, idn't it? A-course it be;
I reckon as it fair belongs to me.

X

I loves to stan' an' watch 'em plough fer wheeat,
The furrers turnin' reg'lar, fit to eeat,
All brown an' meller, straight as any arrer,
It stirs you to the middle of yer marrer;
The craws behint the plough, all 'ungry, 'oppin',
The 'orses keepin' step an' niver stoppin',
The steeam uprisin' frum their backs to meet
The ploughman's frosty breath ...
It 'ud be death
To tek me frum it now; I love it soa;
I only asks to stop an' watch things graw.

XI

When I be deead an' gone to 'eaven
I ain't noa fear:
Why?
'Coz they must 'ev foreman there to lend a 'and
The saame as down belaw. 'Ere mayn't be beer,
Nor yit noa 'bacca (parson says not),
But 'ere must be land:
Else where would they stand?
An' if 'ere's farmin', somebody must be got
To see as things is done accordin' to the rules.
'Ere'll be plenty of mesters an' sich like 'elpless tools.
But decent foremen's scarce an' woth their keep,
Saam as a good shepherd's wanted wi' the sheep.
A course 'ere's land in 'eaven!
It stan's to sense;
It's just the saame in t'other plaace — across the Fence Down below.
Where all th' idle foremen an' saucy mesters go.
It's bad claay land there, wi' nayther draainage nor laabor,
Baakin' summers an wet 'arvests, an' owd Nick for neighbour;
Where them as 'ed good farms, and let 'em run to ruin an' weeds,
Will 'ev to plough wi'out 'osses an' think about their evil deeds,
While docks an' thistles shoots up nine foot 'igh,
An' nowt but craws an' 'ailstorms fills the sky.
But as fer me ... if I doan't goa, who should?
I've done my duty; idn't that noa good?
Who can do more? Look all round the plaace,
Th' 'osses in good 'eart, 'ardly noa twitch,
The gaates an' fences sound, an' ivery ditch
Is cleeaned and dreaned an' rooaded inside out;
Our stock's as good as any hereabout;
What more d'ye want?
If I doan't goa — noa question — straight up there
Noabody couldn't; not in all this sheer.

*****

But when I'm there, I shan't laay in the sun,
Nor yet sit on the grass wi' a 'arp in my 'and;
I shall be thinkin' an' plottin', as I've allers done,
Plannin' an' wokkin' away for all I'm worth,
Throng on the best job ayther in 'eaven or earth.
What's that?
Why ... Farmin' the land!