The Mandrake's Horrid Scream
Why ai n't the Mester back?
Down these owd Fens there ai n't noa neighbours,
An’ when he's finished wi’ his labours,
He gallops off full crack!
I sits aloan an’ shaakes wi’ fear
While he be rousin’ at the‘ Deer.’
Them what's in towns has niver tried
To live aloan, all terrified;
They talk about churchyards at night,
Or things wi’ chains dressed up in white:
Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep
In any place what made them creep!
Coz allers they've a friend about
To hear if they should give a shout!
They dunno what it is to fear
But — here —
What's that?
Only the cat!
An’ she's as black as Death's own self,
She squats all loathly on yon shelf,
Wi’ one unwinkin’ eye on me
I wish the Devil —
No!
Not He!
I did n't mean to mention names,
Nor interfere wi’ others gaames:
They saay as cats is really witches,
Like Betty Williamson, now dead,
What uster wear her husband's breeches
An’ ate the queerest food, foak said;
She set beside her open door
Wi’ one foot allers off the floor,
Quietly knitting; one eye cast
To overlook you as you passed;
An’ just the same, yon nasty critter
Stares at me now that soft an’ bitter!
Oh Dear! I wish my man would came!
May ague twist, an’ strike him dumb!
May fairies nip his liver out
An’ leave him nare a tongue to shout.
Forsaking me, all loansome here
With iverything what's wrong and queer.
From out my winder, where I sit
I see the willows round yon pit:
Dark Pit where Moller Holmes was found
As some said,— accidental drowned!—
But I heard screechin’, terrified,
About the time he must a died!
Having noa bottom, soa they say;
It's dreadful secrets there must stay
Until the Resurrection Day!
Oh where the Devil is that Tom?
I'll give him‘ pub’ when he gits hoam:
The wind is moanin’ round that Pit
As if somebody wished to flit:
There's Things in there what stirs by night
An’ if you see, yer hair turns white;
Around, they say, the Mandrake grows
What's pulled at dead of night by those
Who little care although it screams
To wake poor mortals from their dreams.
Our parson tells of Powers Evil:
( An’ Providence can n't beat the Devil )
Where should they laay, but in yon Pit?
What makes me squirl to think on it:
All gashly arms a-reachin’ out
To clamber up yer water spout
An’ reach you through —
Oh Lor!
Who's that?
‘ Tis something comin’
I hear it hummin’....
My dear good Tom! Thank God it's him!
I was afraid of something grim —
I've bin a-wantin’ you soa long —
You lousy mawkin’, stinkin’ strong
Of beer an’ bacca! Off to bed!
I'll larn yer, Thomas, who you've wed:
‘ Fore morn, you'll wish as you was dead.