Classic Poem

They saay 'ow the Jarmins be comin' to massacre all on us dead,
Wi' millions an' millions of sojers, an' " Bloodthirsty Bill " at their 'ead;
A shootin' the wimin an' childer, a-knockin' the farm'ouses down,
A carryin' off foakses 'osses an' bonnin' their stacks to the groun'.

Bonnin' an' shootin' an' steaalin'! Jimmy! we can't do wi' that,
They might a-come 'ere wi' sich doin's — our bullocks is very nigh fat!
I ain't tued mysen all the summer to feed them there Jarmins fer fun,
Just fancy! Shootin' the childer! ... Reeach me my owd duck-gun.

Grandfeyther fowt fer England agean Boney at Waterloo,
'Im an' Greeat-Uncle-William stood it the whoal daay through;
They wor scarred to death on Boney, but they managed to mester 'im then,
If them Jarmins be aaimin' fer England we mun tek to our baynits agean.

You'll dally on fer a year, boy, the crops is all lotted round,
I've arranged what's wheeat an' what's barley, an' what mun be faller-ground;
You're nobbut a boy, but — Jimmy — if I should come to 'arm,
You, an' yer muther, an' Betsy'll 'ev to manage the farm.

I've brought you up in the waays of feyther an' grand-feyther, too,
What did fer them (an' Boney!) 'll be good enough fer you;
'Ere's only two things to remember — if I doan't come back from the war —
Stick to the church of yer feythers, an' niver sell noa straw .

Yer cousin's joined the naavy, but this mun be settled on land,
It'll 'ev to be finished there, boy, straight-forrad, 'and to 'and;
To-morrow I'll take our labourers slap off to Lincoln Town,
Bill Bones, Jack Smith and Hodgson, Young Ben an Walter Dring,
I knaw as they'll foller anywhere to fate fer me an' the King.
Soa fetch out grandfeyther's sword, Jimmy, an' pass me the duck-gun down.