I
FROM A WINDOW
( " The R ETORT C OURTEOUS " )
She leans out of her window an' says she,
" You're growing woeful stout itself of late,
I'd soon jump over you as round you, Kate, "
With that she laughs and throws a wink at me.
'Twas some old one she faulted down below.
" I heerd, " she says, " they borrowed your two feet
The time they wanted flag-stones for the street,
I thought I'd ask yourself now was it so? "
" It's quare, " says she, " you'll get a shoe that size,
They'll have your likeness on the paper soon,
A foot that bet the 29th o' June. "
She looked at me with her two laughing eyes.
She listens for a minyit — then says she,
" For all the six-foot polis in the place,
Next time we meet I'll bang that off your face,
You'll learn to know your betters so, maybe. "
No more she says but " Thank you for that same. "
So steps across the room with hasty tread,
And from the dresser picks a fish's head,
Then leans out of her window and takes aim.
II
GOD'S IMAGE
Made in God's image? Look at where he stands
Above there at the corner of the street.
The poor old porter-shark daren't trust his feet,
An' so he grabs the lamp post with both hands.
Who'd think we live in Christianable lands?
He's one o' thim old murdering roughs you'll meet
Stravagin' with their baskets through the sleet,
They're after picking cockles on the sands.
The dogs, poor dacint creatures, daren't come nigh,
Thim with drink taken arn't so soft or kind.
So he stands swaying, bawling to the sky
Like some old omadhaun that's lost his mind
Made in God's image? Watch him stagger by —
God's likeness there is mortal hard to find.
III
LITTLE PETER MORRISSEY
P OOR little Peter Morrissey, what way is he at all?
His mother's supping porter till she's like to get a fall,
And all the work his father does is propping up a wall.
He's ne'er a shirt upon his back, nor ganzy to his name,
There never was a pair of boots the likes of him could claim,
An' he's after treading on some glass the way he's walking lame.
When decent childher lie in bed you'll see him out at night,
Where he's screeching " Mail " and " Herald, " or joining in a fight
To hold his own with other lads, an' he not half their height.
You'll see him in the winter time stravagin' through the wet;
He's not so wishful to go home where likely he'll be bet;
An' if he's kilt with cold an' damp, who is there that will fret?
Poor little Peter Morrissey, his troubles have begun,
And yet I've often seen himself sit laughing in the sun,
And he's always ready after school to sing and lep and run.
His mother likes the drink too well to spare the child a toy,
You'd think, maybe, the way he is was far enough from joy,
And yet — there's time I envy him the lighTheart of a boy.
FROM A WINDOW
( " The R ETORT C OURTEOUS " )
She leans out of her window an' says she,
" You're growing woeful stout itself of late,
I'd soon jump over you as round you, Kate, "
With that she laughs and throws a wink at me.
'Twas some old one she faulted down below.
" I heerd, " she says, " they borrowed your two feet
The time they wanted flag-stones for the street,
I thought I'd ask yourself now was it so? "
" It's quare, " says she, " you'll get a shoe that size,
They'll have your likeness on the paper soon,
A foot that bet the 29th o' June. "
She looked at me with her two laughing eyes.
She listens for a minyit — then says she,
" For all the six-foot polis in the place,
Next time we meet I'll bang that off your face,
You'll learn to know your betters so, maybe. "
No more she says but " Thank you for that same. "
So steps across the room with hasty tread,
And from the dresser picks a fish's head,
Then leans out of her window and takes aim.
II
GOD'S IMAGE
Made in God's image? Look at where he stands
Above there at the corner of the street.
The poor old porter-shark daren't trust his feet,
An' so he grabs the lamp post with both hands.
Who'd think we live in Christianable lands?
He's one o' thim old murdering roughs you'll meet
Stravagin' with their baskets through the sleet,
They're after picking cockles on the sands.
The dogs, poor dacint creatures, daren't come nigh,
Thim with drink taken arn't so soft or kind.
So he stands swaying, bawling to the sky
Like some old omadhaun that's lost his mind
Made in God's image? Watch him stagger by —
God's likeness there is mortal hard to find.
III
LITTLE PETER MORRISSEY
P OOR little Peter Morrissey, what way is he at all?
His mother's supping porter till she's like to get a fall,
And all the work his father does is propping up a wall.
He's ne'er a shirt upon his back, nor ganzy to his name,
There never was a pair of boots the likes of him could claim,
An' he's after treading on some glass the way he's walking lame.
When decent childher lie in bed you'll see him out at night,
Where he's screeching " Mail " and " Herald, " or joining in a fight
To hold his own with other lads, an' he not half their height.
You'll see him in the winter time stravagin' through the wet;
He's not so wishful to go home where likely he'll be bet;
An' if he's kilt with cold an' damp, who is there that will fret?
Poor little Peter Morrissey, his troubles have begun,
And yet I've often seen himself sit laughing in the sun,
And he's always ready after school to sing and lep and run.
His mother likes the drink too well to spare the child a toy,
You'd think, maybe, the way he is was far enough from joy,
And yet — there's time I envy him the lighTheart of a boy.