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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, July 23, 1887. By: Various |
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OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOLUME 93 JULY 23, 1887. MR. PUNCH'S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS. No Amateur Reciter can consider himself fully equipped for the
Drawing room or Platform unless he is furnished with at least one poem
in dialect, and Mr. Punch has accordingly commissioned from his Poet a
recitation couched in the well known vernacular of Loompshire.
Loompshire, it need hardly be explained, is the county where most of the
stage rustics come from. The author of this little poem ventures to hope
that philologists will find much deserving of careful study in some of
the local expressions and provincialisms, while he can guarantee their
entire authenticity, as they are mostly of his own invention. The
phraseology is strictly copyright and must not be infringed, except by a
dignitary of archiepiscopal rank for a charitable purpose. As for the
piece itself, it is founded on a little anecdote related to the poet,
which he believes has not hitherto seen the light in a metrical form. It
has a good old fashioned double title, viz: MICHAELMAS DAY; OR, HOW TAMMAS PATTLE VERY NEARLY COOKED HIS GOOSE. Begin by explaining the situation, thus: "This is supposed to be spoken
by a Loompshire cottager, who overhears a stranger admiring the goodly
proportions of his goose," then start with as broad a drawl as you can
assume. Remember that to be effective you must be unintelligible. [Illustration] "Bewty," I 'ears ya carl her? aye, ya niver spoöke truthfuller wurrëd!
Rammack t' coontry side ovver, an ya weänt see no foiner burrëd!
Passon he axed ma to sell her but I towld him, "Beänt o' naw use
She's as mooch of a Chris'en as moäst," I sez, "if she's nobbut a guse!"
Coom, then! ( This coaxingly, to an imaginary bird be careful not to seem to make
any invidious distinctions among your audience. ) ... Naäy, but she wunna! she's gotten a wull of her oän!
Looök at the heye of her, pink an' greëy, loike t'fire in a hopal
stoän!
Howsiver she sims sa hinnercent loike, she's a follerin' arl I saäy:
An' I boärt 'er at Kettleby Feär, I did, two yeär coom Cannelmas Daäy.
Araminta her neäme is but I carls 'er "Minty," fur shoärt,
She weänt naw moor nor a goslin' o' coorse, what taïme she wur boärt:
But a' knawed she'd turn oot a rare 'un, to jedge by her weëight an'
feäl,
An' I reckoned to fat her by Michaelmas Eve, ef I buzzled 'er oop wi
meäl,
Mayhappen ya'll ardly beleäve ma but she unnerstood fra' the fust,
What wur hexpected of 'er, ( with a senile chuckle ,) I thowt that
burr'd 'ud ha' bust!
Cram her, a' did! but she swuckered it doon, wi' niver a weästed drop,
Fur she tuk that hinterest in it as she'd ruther ha' choäked nor stop!
An' she'd foller wheeriver a went till I hedn't naw peäce fur t' foäk,
"'Ere be TAMMY long of his sweetart!" wur hallus the village joäk!
An' I'd saäy: "'Tis ma Michaelmas denner I'm squirin' aboot, owd chap!"
An' Minty she'd stan' up a' tiptoe, an' fluther her neck, an' flap!
Did I 'appen to gaw of a hevenin, to looök at ma hinion patch?
Minty 'ud coom in along o' meä, an' rarstle aboot, an' scratch,
Cocking her heye at the bed o' saäge, with a kink as mooch as to saäy:
"Wull the saäge an' th' hinions be ready fur meä , by toime I be ready
for theëy?"
Or she'd snifter at arl the windfalls as ligged i' the horchard graäss,
I knawed what she wur erfter, a did she wur pickin' 'em oot for the
saäss!
An' I'd roob ma ands fur to see her a ploddlin' across th' roärd,
( Tenderly. ) "Thee'll mak' a denner, ma pratty," I'd saäy to her, "fit
fur a loärd!"
Maäin an' boolky she wur as Michaelmas week coom nigh,
"Her'll niver not bulge naw bigger," I sez, "an she art fur to die!"
I knawed she wur doitlin' soomwheer by the pasture under t' moör,
Sa I fetched the chopper an' fettled 'im oop an' I went fur to do 'er!
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