Cornish Catches Part 4

RICHES

Miss Tregear be a whisht poor woman, With her big fine house an' her carriage an' pair; Her keeps four maids, not countin' the tweeny, An' another especial to do her hair.

Ruth Penwarne be a braave rich woman; Her lives in a cottage with a warpley door; Her've got four childer, not countin' the baby, An' there baint no tellin' but her might have more.

Miss Tregear have a room for dinin', An' a room for drawin', where her doesn' draw, An' a room where books be shut in cupboards, An' others us don't knaw what they'm for.

Ruth Penwarne have a little linhay, An' there her washes when the rain be nigh, But when 'tis sunny her goes in the garden, An' spreads her clo'es on the fuzzen to dry.

Miss Tregear have a pile o' carpets; Her be frit of a moth or a speck o' dust; Her be feared that the sun will spile her curtains, An' the damp will make her fire-irons rust.

Ruth Penwarne have a fine stone kitchen; An' two rooms aloft as be crammed with beds; Her don't have carpets, so they can't get dirty, An' her soon clanes up where the childer treads.

Miss Tregear have a face that's lonely; Her be often sad, tho' her can't tell why; Her be allays asayin there's nothin' doin', An' thinks how slow all the days go by.

Ruth Penwarne haven't time for thinkin', With makin' an' mendin' an' scrubbin' too, An' sartin sure, she'm a braave rich woman, With childer an' home an' her work to do.

A FIRESIDE SPELL

"I've spanked young Tom an' sent him to bed, an' I reckon it sarves him right; For 'tisn no use asayin' things when the rope's end baint in sight, An' he shouldn' go steerin' out along when the tide is runnin' away, I've telled him afore; I cussn't keep on atellin' him every day."

"Now when I was a boy--" "Iss, when you was a boy, you was jest such a scalliant too, All'ays athinkin' o' darin' things as you didn' belong to do.

Climbin' they clifts for saygulls' eggs or clambering ower the crags An' heavin' tuffs at the cormorants, an' shyin' stones at the s.h.a.gs."

"But when I was a boy--" "Iss, when you was a boy you worried you'm mother a mort, I mind how'ee tried to swim out to the Point, an' how in the race'ee was caught; I know they had dared'ee at doin' their dags, but dags didn' keep'ee afloat, An' the say 'ud have catched'ee that mornin', sure 'nuff, if they hadn' raced out with the boat."

"Well, mebbe I was jest sich a limb, as'ee says, an' all'ays full sail for a game, An' I reckon as boys will be boys when they'm boys, but grows into men what are tame, An' when Tom is a feyther alarnin' _his_ son to feel the weight of _his_ hand, Mebbe he'll fergive me for spankin' him now, an' remember, an'

understand."

CORNISH COMFORT

"Don't 'ee cry, lil' maid, 'tis awnly a broken bussa; The jowds won't mend, best lave the attle abide.

There's tummals o' bussas left, an' it might be wusser."

But the lil' maid cried.

"Don't 'ee cry, li'l maid. If fellows gets changy and chancy, Tomorrow a braaver will come than the totle who stepped.

Floshed milk baint no use, an' it isn' wuth scrowlin', I fancy."

Still the lil' maid wept.

"Don't 'ee cry, li'l maid--Iss, the Say be a terrible net, An' 'tis wearisome waitin' a meetin' beyont the Big Tide; Jest try to catch sleep on you'm pellaw, mebbe you'll forget."

Still the lil' maid cried.

"Don't 'ee cry did un say? Well, youm feyther jest wanted to cheer'ee, But men doesn' knaw where the best cup o' comfort is kept.

Cuddle down; cry it out on you'm own mother's bosom, me dearie."

Then the lil' maid slept.

"I MIND ME"

I mind me of the cottage where I used to bide Just above the harbour on the steep hill-side; Cobbled was the cause'y to the jasmined door That looked into the kitchen with the grey stone floor.

I mind me of the dresser with the chainy white, An' the gurt big Bible as was read aSunday night; An' the old cloam tay-pot with the broken spout As wanted suant dealin' at the pourin' out.

I mind the quiet mornin's an' the tickin' o' the clock, An' the brath upon the brandiss in the steamin' crock; An' the goin' of the shadows an' the comin' of the day, An' the startin' in the dimsey for the fis.h.i.+n' in the bay.

I mind me of the night-times an' wind whisslin' drear, An' the scraitchin' o' the s.h.i.+ngle when I couldn' slape for fear; An' the groanin' gropin' darkness with norra gleam nor star, An' the boom of the billows on the harbour bar.

But the cosy chimley corner, I mind it best of all, With the smell of tatie pasties from the oven in the wall, An' the crackle of the fuzzen with the billies on the blow, An' the ring o' ruddy faces in the hearth-fire glow.

The cottage still is lookin' from the hill across the bay; Above the cobbled cause'y swings the jasmine spray; But the gleam o' ruddy faces an' the hearth-fire glow Went out in the darkness long long ago.

"SURE 'NUFF"

Sure 'nuff, 'twas good when I was a lad To be in a boat in the bay; To whiffle the mack'rel, hook the chad, And haul at the nets away; 'Twas good to feel the wind in my face, An' scud through a tumble o' foam, An' see far off the twinklin' lights Of the lil' grey port, an' home.

An' 'twas good to climb in the craggy clifts Where the guillemot raired her brood, An' go with a laugh in the heart all day; Sure 'nuff, 'twas good!

Sure 'nuff, 'twas good when I wandered away, An' saw that the world was wide, In the wunnerful lands beyont the say, An' the ports where the big s.h.i.+ps ride.

'Twas good to meet men who could strive an' seek, An' didn' knaw nort o' fear, An' hail 'em a word in pa.s.sin' by, An' answer 'em back with a cheer.

'Twas good to be sailin' the way o' the world, An' standin' where strong men stood, An' counted awhile as a man among men; Sure 'nuff, 'twas good!

Sure 'nuff, 'tis good, with voyagin' done, To be anch.o.r.ed in port at last, An' watch the boys go, one by one, As I did in days long past; 'Tis good to set in the cottage door, An' gaze at the sky an' say, An' knaw that I fared on the flood tide once, Now 'tis fallin' away; An' 'tis good to have time to make ready to sail On the voyage that leads to rest; An' I trust a Pilot Who will not fail.

Sure 'nuff, 'tis best!

II.

THE GARMENT OF TIME