Classic Poem

W HO'S welcome in the early morn?
Who's vallied more than growing corn?
Who's humoured in the afternoon
And begged “to leave off working soon”?
Told “to goa easy if he can”?
Why—Me! the able-bodied man.

This war has answered for a lot,
But now it's touched the very spot,
Our mester runs from morn to night,
Uneasy if I'm outer sight,
To keep me quiet's all his plan,
'Coz I'm an able-bodied man.

When war brok' out and all our chaps
Went marching off in sojer caps,
The mester says, “Now, Georgie Pratt,
“Your twisted leg's noa good for that;
“You wok all right enough, I know,
“But all the same you'll never go.

“Soa doan't you leave me, George, and then
“I'll treat you as I treat mysen;
“Good mesters scarce; you stick to me,
“'Coz us two allers did agree.
“You're getting plenty, but, anyway,
“I'll promise niver to drop yer pay.”

I smiled at that, but didn't speak:
Afore the war, the nasty sneak—
'Tis well they named him “Cunning Jim”—
Just 'coz I had a twisted limb
He docked my daily wage a penny,
Although I wokked as hard as any.

If I wor btu a minute late
He stood—his watch out—at the gate;
If I should stop to draw a breath
He used to scowl as black as death.
Once when I beged a holiday
He nearly fainted dead away.

The neighbours call him “Cunning Jim”
'Coz noa one gits the best of him,
Leastways, that allers wor his booast,
But now I've got the brute on tooast;
Afore this foreign war be done
I'll make him wish as he'd a gone.

You'd really laugh to hear him now,
It's: “Would you kindly goa and plough?”
Or, “If you're ready, George, my lad,
“To start and hoe, I should be glad;
“Just tek yer time, doan't start too fierce,
“Doan't bost yersen; good men be scarce.”

He uster watch, all in a stew,
Lest I should find an egg or two;
But, now, it's: “George, tek one for tea,
“'Twill strengthen you to wok for me;
“Tek two or three; just help yersen,
“I'm all for feeding up my men.”

A cat would grin to see us here,
He sweats and grooans but dossent swear,
Cusses hissen and blows and pants;
I comes to work just when I wants.
Instead of thirteen bob, and kicks,
I'm drawing twenty-nine-and-six.

He sees me come at half-past seven,
And sets his teeth (it's just like Heaven),
Bethinks hissen and tries to smile,
The yeller-bellied bag o' bile!
'Coz who the devil 'ud help to mow
If I should leave, he dudn't know.

Noabody else 'ud help him now,
Not if he paid 'em iver so;
This is my chanch, it's come at last,
To square mysen for what be past,
He pays and grooans but dossent squeak:
I raise my wages ivery week.

A shillin' ivery week I raise,
While poor owd Jimmy grooans and prays;
I tells him ivery now and then
I'm off to auctioneer mysen;
Who bids the moast and pays enew
Will have me for the next week through.

That omost scares him off his head,
But Jimmy needn't have noa dread,
I'm going to stop and pay him out,
The wankle, wizened little lout.
This is my time for laying hold—
I wouldn't leave for minted gold.

Now, as the harvest's coming on,
I rests on Sat'dy afternoon;
On Sundays in the mester's trap
I sets off wi' another chap,
To keep mysen from gitting stale:
Our mester finds cigars and ale.

My money idn't squandered, though,
These happy times is sure to go,
And when the army's gotten hoam,
Our mester thinks his time will come;
I know his nasty cunning tricks:
He'll cut us down to eight-and-six.

But not for George! what knows too much
To git his arm in sich a crutch;
I'm laying by, each week, a pound,
And when that time has come around,
With my best thanks to “Cunning Jim”
I'm going to say “Good-bye” to him.