Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, July 23, 1887.

Excerpt

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.

"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! (Grimly.)

An' I chillupped to Araminty, an' oop she rins with a clack,

"Seeä what I've gotten to show 'ee," I sez, (wi' the chopper behind ma back)

But I looked sa straänge an callow, she knawed I wur meanin' 'er ill,

An' she kep a sidlin' an' edgin' awaäy, an' a gaäpin' wi' hopen bill...!