The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ I’m not havin’ your orts an’ slarts.

       —Which on us said you wor?

      I want you to know ’e’s non marryin’ you. —Tha wants ’im thy-sen too bad. Though I’ll see as ’e pays you, an’ comes to the scratch. —Tha’rt for doin’ a lot wi’ th’ lad.

      VIII

      To think I should ha’e to haffle an’ caffle

       Wi’ a woman, an’ pay ’er a price

       For lettin’ me marry the lad as I thought

       To marry wi’ cabs an’ rice.

      But we’ll go unbeknown to the registrar,

       An’ give ’er what money there is, For I won’t be beholden to such as her For anythink of his.

      IX

      Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,

       An’ come wi’ me in here,

       Ta’e off thy p’lice-man’s helmet

       An’ look me clear.

      I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,

       I do, an’ that I do!

       For whenever I look thee i’ th’ face, I s’ll see

       Her face too.

      I wish tha could wesh ’er off’n thee,

       For I used to think that thy

       Face was the finest thing that iver

       Met my eye....

      X

      Twenty pound o’ thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha’e I,

       Thine shall go to pay the woman, an’ wi’ my bit we’ll buy

       All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,

       An’ we’ll be married at th’ registrar—now lift thy face.

      Lift thy face an’ look at me, man, up an’ look at me:

       Sorry I am for this business, an’ sorry if I ha’e driven thee

       To such a thing: but it’s a poor tale, that I’m bound to say,

       Before I can ta’e thee I’ve got a widow of forty-five to pay.

      Dunnat thee think but what I love thee—I love thee well,

       But ’deed an’ I wish as this tale o’ thine wor niver my tale to tell;

       Deed an’ I wish as I could stood at the altar wi’ thee an’ been proud o’ thee,

       That I could ha’ been first woman to thee, as thou’rt first man to me.

      But we maun ma’e the best on’t—I’ll rear thy childt if ’er’ll yield it to me,

       An’ then wi’ that twenty pound we gi’e ’er I s’d think ’er wunna be

       So very much worser off than ’er wor before—An’ now look up

       An’ answer me—for I’ve said my say, an’ there’s no more sorrow to sup.

      Yi, tha’rt a man, tha’rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes

       As sulky an’ ormin’ as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise

       From what I’ve arranged wi’ thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou art,

       Kiss me then—there!—ne’er mind if I scraight—I wor fond o’ thee, Sweetheart.

      A Collier’s Wife

       Table of Contents

      Somebody’s knocking at the door

       Mother, come down and see.

       —I’s think it’s nobbut a beggar,

       Say, I’m busy.

      Its not a beggar, mother,—hark

       How hard he knocks ...

       —Eh, tha’rt a mard-’arsed kid,

       ’E’ll gi’e thee socks!

      Shout an’ ax what ’e wants,

       I canna come down.

       —’E says “Is it Arthur Holliday’s?”

       Say “Yes,” tha clown.

      ’E says, “Tell your mother as ’er mester’s

       Got hurt i’ th’ pit.”

       What—oh my sirs, ’e never says that,

       That’s niver it.

      Come out o’ the way an’ let me see,

       Eh, there’s no peace!

       An’ stop thy scraightin’, childt,

       Do shut thy face.

      “Your mester’s ’ad an accident,

       An’ they’re ta’ein ’im i’ th’ ambulance

       To Nottingham,”—Eh dear o’ me

       If ’e’s not a man for mischance!

      Wheers he hurt this time, lad?

       —I dunna know,

       They on’y towd me it wor bad—

       It would be so!

      Eh, what a man!—an’ that cobbly road,

       They’ll jolt him a’most to death,

       I’m sure he’s in for some trouble

       Nigh every time he takes breath.

      Out o’ my way, childt—dear o’ me, wheer

       Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;

       Goodness knows if they’ll be able

       To take off his pit dirt.

      An’ what a moan СКАЧАТЬ