  Why ain't the Mester back? Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours, An' when he's finished wi' his labours, He gallops off full crack! I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.' Them what's in towns has niver tried To live aloan, all terrified; They talk about churchyards at night, Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep In any place what made them creep! Coz allers they've a friend about To hear if they should give a shout! They dunno what it is to fear But—here— What's that? Only the cat! An' she's as black as Death's own self, She squats all loathly on yon shelf, Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me I wish the Devil— No! Not He! I didn't mean to mention names, Nor interfere wi' others gaames: Like Betty Williamson, now dead, What uster wear her husband's breeches An' ate the queerest food, foak said; She set beside her open door Wi' one foot allers off the floor, Quietly knitting; one eye cast To overlook you as you passed; An' just the same, yon nasty critter Stares at me now that soft an' bitter! Oh Dear! I wish my man would came! May ague twist, an' strike him dumb! May fairies nip his liver out An' leave him nare a tongue to shout. Forsaking me, all loansome here With iverything what's wrong and queer. From out my winder, where I sit I see the willows round yon pit: Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found As some said,—accidental drowned!— But I heard screechin', terrified, About the time he must a died! Having noa bottom, soa they say; It's dreadful secrets there must stay Until the Resurrection Day! Oh where the Devil is that Tom? I'll give him 'pub' when he gits hoam: The wind is moanin' round that Pit As if somebody wished to flit: An' if you see, yer hair turns white; Around, they say, the Mandrake grows What's pulled at dead of night by those Who little care although it screams To wake poor mortals from their dreams. Our parson tells of Powers Evil: (An' Providence can't beat the Devil) Where should they laay, but in yon Pit? What makes me squirl to think on it: All gashly arms a-reachin' out To clamber up yer water spout An' reach you through— Oh Lor! Who's that? 'Tis something comin' I hear it hummin'.... My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him! I was afraid of something grim— I've bin a-wantin' you soa long— You lousy mawkin', stinkin' strong Of beer an' bacca! Off to bed! I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed: 'Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead. |
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