Christmas Holidays at Merryvale: The Merryvale Boys
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | Alice Hale Burnett | ISBN: | 9781465515612 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Alice Hale Burnett |
| ISBN: | 9781465515612 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
WELL, THERE 'TIS Well, there 'tis. You wakes up cryin' an' callin', You'm cold an' hungered, an' skeered o' the turble dark; It feels most like a gert black cloud's a fallin' To crunch you to nothin', an' leave you smuttered an' stark. But a kind hand comes when the gert black clouds would drownd you, An' a warm breast holds you tight to cuddle an' kiss, An' you know that the world o' Love be all around you. Well! there 'tis. Then you grows a bit, and you finds a mort o' pleasure In the rush o' the waves an' the roarin' wind in the sky; An' you plays your games at Pirates seekin' treasure, Or Penny-come-quick when the Breton Boys go by. An' you don't much trouble at difrent kinds o' weather, If 'tis sunny 'tis sunny, but rain won't make you miss The chance to trample away thro' the moorland heather; Well! there 'tis. But you keeps on growin', an' then you begin in a fashion To want some things you'd never a thought on before; An' you sees some eyes be blue, an' you gets a passion For jest a very perticlar cottage door. An' you don't feel tired at the end o' the day o' toilin' So long as it ends with the sound an' song of a kiss, So long as it ends with arms round you coilin'; Well! there 'tis. Then you grows old, an' at last you falls on sleepin'. Do you count you'll be all alone in the turble dark? Do you think you'll be left to the sound o' wailin' an' weepin' Lonely an' cold in the cloam, unmOthered an' stark? When you was a baby, helpless an' cryin' an' callin' Didn' the kind arms take, an' the warm lips kiss? An' won't there be Arms at last, to save you from fallin'? Well! there 'tis. GARDENS Passun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty, He'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow; He'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns, An' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know. Squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden, With hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun; He likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches, An' thinks as what the passun grows the whishtest sort o' fun. Feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers, For he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things; His cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder, An' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings! But I've a finer garden than the squire or the passun; 'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains. There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass, An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass. An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills. So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', An' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine. GROCERY
WELL, THERE 'TIS Well, there 'tis. You wakes up cryin' an' callin', You'm cold an' hungered, an' skeered o' the turble dark; It feels most like a gert black cloud's a fallin' To crunch you to nothin', an' leave you smuttered an' stark. But a kind hand comes when the gert black clouds would drownd you, An' a warm breast holds you tight to cuddle an' kiss, An' you know that the world o' Love be all around you. Well! there 'tis. Then you grows a bit, and you finds a mort o' pleasure In the rush o' the waves an' the roarin' wind in the sky; An' you plays your games at Pirates seekin' treasure, Or Penny-come-quick when the Breton Boys go by. An' you don't much trouble at difrent kinds o' weather, If 'tis sunny 'tis sunny, but rain won't make you miss The chance to trample away thro' the moorland heather; Well! there 'tis. But you keeps on growin', an' then you begin in a fashion To want some things you'd never a thought on before; An' you sees some eyes be blue, an' you gets a passion For jest a very perticlar cottage door. An' you don't feel tired at the end o' the day o' toilin' So long as it ends with the sound an' song of a kiss, So long as it ends with arms round you coilin'; Well! there 'tis. Then you grows old, an' at last you falls on sleepin'. Do you count you'll be all alone in the turble dark? Do you think you'll be left to the sound o' wailin' an' weepin' Lonely an' cold in the cloam, unmOthered an' stark? When you was a baby, helpless an' cryin' an' callin' Didn' the kind arms take, an' the warm lips kiss? An' won't there be Arms at last, to save you from fallin'? Well! there 'tis. GARDENS Passun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty, He'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow; He'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns, An' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know. Squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden, With hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun; He likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches, An' thinks as what the passun grows the whishtest sort o' fun. Feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers, For he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things; His cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder, An' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings! But I've a finer garden than the squire or the passun; 'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains. There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass, An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass. An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills. So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', An' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine. GROCERY
