|
Click on title to be taken to the poem
Ole Bood
The Taaty Pasty
The Fox
Carn Brea Cathedral
Ole
Bood
(From
an
incident at Waterloo Station
I
went to London and Mother too.
Us
zeed the Thames. the Tower, the Zoo,
Us
did'n knaw then what more ver do,
So
us traapsed away to Waterloo
Ver
home to Bood
Our
'eads was addled with sights and sounds
Our
‘earts
was sick and tired of towns,
Our
veet was achin' ver Zummerleaze Downs
In
dear ole Bood.
There
was crowds of voiks in the Bookin' 'all,
But
of
volks
us knawed there wad'n a sawl
So
I sticked me 'cad in a pigeon awl-‑
'Two
tickets ver Bood.'
I
looked to Mother, 'er face was red,
'Hush
Jan, be maazed? 'tis Bude,' 'er said,
But
then the Clerk 'ee shawed 'ces 'ead,
And—'Good
Old Bood!'
All
eager-like I says to 'un
'Be
you from Bood, then, too, my son?'
'Ees,
father, fey I be—no fun,
I
be from Bood.'
'And
up ta "Street" where I was born
Could
yer the sea and the coachman's horn,
And
I tell 'ee London's cruel forlorn
Beside
ole Bood.'
'I
wad'n a-born ta Bood' says I,
`But
Bood I live and there I'll die,
'Tis
a place where a-body can see the sky
Is
dear ole Bood.'
'And
the streets by clayn and the houses too,
And
the Station beateth Waterloo,
And
even poor volks gets a voo,
Home
there to Bood.'
'So'
sonny, I'll see ole Rood to day,
And
the Ceres sailin' in the Bay
And
the beaudiful sunset o'er the zay,
And
when I sees yer volks I'll say
Yer
love to Bood.'
*This characteristic piece, printed from a MS. Copy of these verses
as recited forty or fifty years ago by the late Mr. Morgan Antony, of
St Ives, will be welcome to Cornish Dialect reciters everywhere. Ed.
(1925)
The Taaty Paasty
By Morgan Antony*
(Published in Old Cornwall April 1926)
Now touch your pipe comrades says I
And niver be too hasty,
And I will make a footch to rhyme
about a Tatty-Paasty
There’s mait enuf of iv’ry sort
All fillin like and taasty;
But. For a Carnish miners mait,
Give me a Taaty-Paasty.
Good-Lor1-What lots of em I’ve carr’d
To bal when I were little-
Baaked ‘pon the brandis long with furse,
En baaker and en kittle!
Iss slabs es handy, I deer saay-
Theres piles of new things maaken-
But give me Mawther’s baaker, soas!
That theer’s the thing for baaken!
Slabs, kitcheners, and what besides-
I’d fooch awaay them trade;
No pasties iver was sa good
As them that Mather made!
The fire-ook in her hand,
a-footchen ‘bout the burnen sticks,
And doin’ pasties grand!
An then she’d saay, “Tey’er ready, ‘bleeve!”
Jist as the fit would take her,
And slip a knife right in between
The bake-ire and the baaker.
“Aw, they’re done beautiful!” she’d saay.
“Fauwl wan se burnt a bit-
Well niver mind-‘tes luch I s’pose;
We take what we can git!
Now maidens, taake they paasties up,
An’ put en all you’ve got;
A pass’l o’ hungry grawen booys
Well ait a braa big lot!”
Et may not ba sa very rech,
Nor yit sa very shawy;
But nawthen’s like a pasty, soas,
To feed a grawen booy!
An ‘ then they aren’t like pie or stew,
Or brath, or fish-an-tates,
Or fried petates; for they you must
Have baasins, dishes plates.
An’ knives and farks, an’ spoons an’ things
An’ table, to be sure;
But for a pasty hands an’ jaws
Will do, weth nawthen moore.
Jist drap’n en your handkercher,
Wan carner sticken out;
Then bite an’ chow which way you mind,
You’re right enough, no doubt.
You needn’t have et en no room,
Nor set upon no cheer ;
Jist choose a spat of handy grass
An’ setty down right theer.
Or lean your back agin a hedge,
Or quatty ‘pon a board,
An’ then you wudn, ef you cud,
Chaange denners weth a loor!
So good luck to the pasty, booys,
The aiter, and the maker;
And good luck to the baaken-ire,
The brandis, and the baaker-
Good luck to all the Carnish booys,
That niver yit was baiten;
A pasty may they niver want
Nor Stummick for to ait’n!
Click to return to the top
THE FOX.
By
WM.
TRESIDDER.
GOOD
friend, when down in "Barbary," The land of Cornish folk, I mean,
Beware lest they retort on thee With native wit, so true and keen.
Among
the men of north " St. Ann's,"
Famed
for their one-time futile labour,'
There
lived one of our " Foolish Jans,"
Though
not so much behind his neighbour.
One
day in hunting-time, near Yule,
A
luckless Nimrod rode and pondered,
Our
Jan he spied, and bawled, " Here, fool,
Canst
say which way the fox has wandered?"
"
Aw, Maaster! you ded frighten me ;‑
A codger 'tes, I thoft, plaise sure,
But
gents, they doon't luk down 'pon we,—
They d' knaw tes wisht nuf to be poor.
"What
soort o' crayter do 'ee mane ?
Was'
sumfin like a lil small dog;
Wan
minnet looken fur a drain,
Then
dugglen awver field and bog?"
"Au
bra' way back the dogs ded yowl
A
rig'lar drilgy 'twas to hear—
They
say he stawl the farmers's fowl
Then
to kill 'e they thoft was feer.
"Shut
up, you fool, I cannot stay,"
With
upraised whip the hunter cries,
As
Jan, in his own stuttering way,
Talked
of his tail and " cunnen' eyes.
"Mind
you doon't 'it me weth that tool!
You'm
in some por to git away;
Quitty
for quotty, you called me fool,
I
b'leve I seed en—t'other
day."
Of
hedging-in the guckoo. A Gothamite tale which they share with
many other places.
Click to return to the top
CARN BREA CATHEDRAL
by Bert Thomas
Ded I tell ‘ee ‘bout Cam Brea Cathedral
An’ ‘ow it all come about?
Well you’ll want t’ knaw a bit ‘bout tha Bishup
An’ awlsoa tha Dean I’ve no doubt.
Tha Bishup was built short an’ stuggy
Weth a ‘ead which was shinny an’ bald
An noun’ reddish chacks an’ a smile on ‘is faace
‘ee dedn seem t’ ‘ave no wernies ‘t all.
Tha Dean ‘ee was tall an’ ‘s thin ‘s a raake
Uv good ‘umour ‘ee dedn ‘ave no lack
But ‘ee wouidn’ shaw ut, not less ‘ee ‘ad to,
‘Ee seemed t’ ‘ave th’ ole wend on ‘is back.
Black ‘aired an’ dark featured an’ stoopin’
‘Ee looked like a prophet uv owld;
But ‘ee’d laff like a pisky when ‘ee ‘ad ‘nuf whisky
(Which ‘ee ‘ad ‘t ‘ave t’ keep out tha cowld);
Fer ‘tes braa ‘m cowld on Cam Bnea some evenin’s
When th’whole piaace es shrouded in fog
An’ tha winds blaw tha drizzle right up from St. Ives,
‘Tedn fit fen man, woman, ‘n dog.
You got t’ ‘ave somethin’ t’ warm ‘ee
An’ though some git ‘long weth their tea
The Dean claimd that people sh’d drink what they fancied;
An’ it ‘ad t’ be whisky fen ‘ee.
Tha Bishup dedn mm’ what ‘ee drank ‘t awl;
Tay, wines, coffee, spirits ‘r beer
‘Ee dearly liked t’ ‘ave ‘is pint down at that ‘Lion’
‘Ee c’d chat to ‘is people down theen
An ‘ear ‘bout then troubles an’ give ‘is advice
In a way that was neelly perfeshnal,
An’ so many people turned up Fnidy nights
That sum called et tha Bishup’s Confeshnal.
Sometimes, uv an evenin’ tha Dean went down tha Cam
T’ call in at th’ owld “Oss an Cart”
An’ chat t’ tha neglars an’ visiters then,
An tha Dean thnawed a pretty good dart.
They dedn ‘ave no dart board in tha Cathedral
An’ ‘is werk kep’m busy awl day
Soa ‘ee dedn ‘ave a lot a’ time fer t’ practise
But ‘ee ‘adn’t fengot ‘ow t’ play.
An’ many a visiter who took’n on
An’ played ‘n fen pints ‘r fer tots
Found the Reverend gentleman better than they
Though losin’ was far from theen thawts,
Fen Deans aren’t s’posed t’ be any good
At gaames like shove-haapny ‘r darts
An’ t’ be beat fair ‘n square by this solmn ol’ man
Was jist like a knife t’ then ‘earts.
But it gov’m respect fen Religion
An’ fer th’ ol’ Dean uv Cam Brea
An’ tha Dean dedn mm’ winnin’ a tot ‘n two
‘Twas like ‘avin’ untaxable pay.
‘mong tha regular congnegaashun
Was a man called Sammy Tneloar
An’ ‘ee went t’ sleep evry sermon
‘Caws ‘ee thawt that’s wat sermons was forT’ gib’m a rest
b’tween
singin’,
Fer ‘ee gave th’ oi’ hymn tunes beII-tink
An’ if you stood near to un when ‘ee was in full spaate
Shock waves from ‘is voice maade ‘ee blink 22
When they come t’ th’ end of th’ hymn tune
‘Ee sat down agen in ‘is pew
An’ wud doaze off ‘gen till th’ argan ded start
An’ then ‘ee’d come up right on cue.
That angan was jist like a ‘larm clock to un,
No other soun’ woake’n ‘t all;
People said ‘ee wud sleep if tha C’thedral failed down
Ef ‘ee dedn git that ol’ argan call.
Tha Bishup said, “What can ‘ee do weth tha man?
‘Ee doan’t ‘ear a wend that es sed!
‘Ee doan’t ‘ear no ‘nnouncements, no prayers n’r no sermns,
N’r no lesson, ‘oever tes read.”
The Dean sed “Me ‘ansum, now leave’n aloan
An’ be thankful t’ God ‘ee doan’t snoar.
Then’s sum wot caan’t understand awl we d’ say
Ef they could, they wouldn cum ‘ere no moan.
They d’ think ‘Thass anuther new ‘at Many Richards ‘as got on
An’ I abm seen ‘m in that dress befoam.
Awl tha money in that ‘ouse d’ goa on ‘em back
Caws ‘em oI’ man an’ kids d’ look poor’.
An’ sum d’ sit quiet an’ think bout then garden
An’ ‘ow then p’taties ‘r grawin’
An’ whether tes time fen t’ put in sum unyuns
Or wether tha groun’s might fer sawing.
Ef you caan’t understand et you just ‘s well sleep through et
As let y’n mm’ wander ‘bout things.
Es doan’t do no ‘arm t’ nobody else.
Sam d’ worship wen ‘ee d’ sing;
An’ ‘ee’Il awiways ‘elp ef then’s sum job t’ do
T’ kape this oald buiidin’ like new.”
Tha Bishup sed “Dean, I’d bleeve that y’r right,
An’ I’d knaw weth sum people tes true,
Ef they d’ like then hymn singing better than pnaichin’
Then edn much that I c’n do.”
The Dean sed, “Sum people d’ take in things better
Ef you talk t’ them when they’re asleep,
Tes th’ hypnotic effect that the Doctors d’ use
When then patients es sleepin’ quite deep.”
Sed tha Bishup, “Me ‘andsome, I d’ knaw you mean well
You d’ awlways ‘elp me a lot,
Come down-long weth me t’ th’ ol’ ‘Oss ‘n Cart”
An’ I’ll play ‘ee at darts fer a tot.
Click to return to the top
|
