The Church-Warden And The Curate
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
Eh? good da'y! good da'y! thaw it be'n't not mooch of a da'y,
Nasty, casselty (1) weather! an' mea Ha'fe down wi' my ha'y! (2)
II.
How be the farm gittin on? no'ways. Gittin on i'dee'd!
Why, tonups was Ha'fe on 'em fingers an' toas, (3) an' the mare brokken-knee'd,
An' pigs didn't sell at fall, (4) an' wa lost wer Haldeny cow,
An' it be'ts ma to knaw wot she died on, but wool's looking oop ony how.
III.
An' so' they've ma'de tha a parson, an' thou'll git along, niver fear,
Fur I be'n chuch-warden mysen i' the parish fur fifteen year.
Well'sin ther be' chuch-wardens, ther mun be parsons an' all,
An' if t''ne stick alongside t'uther (5) the chuch we'nt happen a fall.
IV.
Fur I wur a Baptis wonst, an' age'n the toithe an' the ra'te,
Till I fun (6) that it warn't not the ga'inist (7) wa'y to the narra Ga'te.
An' I can't abe'r 'em, I can't, fur a lot on 'em coom'd ta-year (8)'
I wur down wi' the rheumatis then'to my pond to wesh thessens theere'
Sa I sticks like the ivin (9) as long as I lives to the owd chuch now,
Fur they wesh'd their sins i' my pond, an' I doubts they poison'd the cow.
V.
Ay, an' ya seed the Bishop. They say's 'at he coom'd fra nowt'
Burn i' tra'de. Sa I warrants 'e niver said ha'fe wot 'e thowt,
But 'e cree'pt an' 'e crawl'd along, till 'e fee'ld 'e could howd 'is o'n,
Then 'e married a gre't Yerl's darter, an' sits o' the Bishop's throan.
VI.
Now I'll gie the a bit o' my mind an' tha weant be taakin' offence,
Fur thou be a big scholard now wi' a hoonderd ha'cre o' sense'
But sich an obstropulous (10) lad'naay, naay'fur I minds tha sa well,
Tha'd niver not hopple (11) thy tongue, an' the tongue's sit afire o' Hell,
As I says to my missis to-da'y, when she hurl'd a pla'te at the cat
An' anoother age'n my no'se. Ya was niver sa bad as that.
VII.
But I minds when i' Howlaby beck won da'y ya was ticklin' o' trout,
An' kee'per 'e seed ya an roon'd, an' 'e beal'd (12) to ya 'Lad coom hout'
An' ya stood oop na'kt i' the beck, an' ya tell'd 'im to knaw his awn pla'ce
An' ye call'd 'im a clown, ya did, an' ya thraw'd the fish i' 'is fa'ce,
An' 'e torn'd (13) as red as a stag-tuckey's (14) wattles, but theer an' then
I co'mb'd 'im down, fur I promised ya'd niver not do it age'n.
VIII.
An' I cotch'd tha wonst i' my garden, when thou was a height-year-howd, (15)
An' I fun thy pockets as full o' my pippins as iver they'd 'owd, (16)
An' thou was as pe'rky (17) as owt, an' tha ma'de me as mad as mad,
But I says to the 'kee'p 'em, an' welcome' fur thou was the Parson's lad.
IX.
An Parson 'e 'ears on it all, an' then ta'kes kindly to me,
An' then I wur chose Chuch-warden an' coom'd to the top o' the tree,
Fur Quoloty's hall my friends, an' they ma'kes ma a help to the poor,
When I gits the pla'te fuller o' Soondays nor ony chuch-warden afoor,
Fur if iver thy feyther'ed riled me I kep' mysen mee'k as a lamb,
An' saw by the Gra'ce o' the Lord, Mr. Harry, I ham wot I ham.
X.
But Parson 'e will spe'k out, saw, now 'e be sixty-seven,
He'll niver swap Owlby an' Scratby fur owt but the Kingdom o' Heaven:
An' thou'II be 'is Curate 'ere, but, if iver tha me'ns to git 'igher,
The mun tackle the sins o' the Wo'ld, (18) an' not the faults o' the Squire.
An' I reckons tha'll light of a livin' some-wheers i' the Wowd (19) or the Fen,
If tha cottons down to thy betters, an' kee'ps thysen to thysen.
But niver not spe'k pla'in out, if tha wants to git forrards a bit,
But cree'p along the hedge-bottoms, an' thou'll be a Bishop yit.
XI.
Na'y, but tha mun spe'k hout to the Baptises here i' the town,
Fur mo'st on 'em talks age'n tithe, an' I'd like the to pre'ch 'em down,
Fur they've bin a-pre'chin' mea down, they heve, an' I ha'tes 'em now,
Fur they le'ved their nasty sins i' my pond, an' it poison'd the cow.