A Brussen Bubble.

A poem by John Hartley

Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
Shoo lived near Woodus Moor; -
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love - and as luck let,
It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
Or one wi better wit.

His name awm net inclined to tell,
But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
Sed Bet, "let's get agate."

"This morn wol darnin socks for thee
This thowt coom i' mi nop,
An do't we will if tha'll agree; -
Let's start a little shop.
We'll sell all sooarts o' useful things
'At ivverybody needs;
Like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins,
An buttons, sooap, an threeds.

An spice for th' childer, - castor oil,
An traitle drink, an pies,
An kinlin wood, an maybe coil,
Fresh yeast an hooks an eyes.
Corn plaisters, Bristol brick, an clay,
Puttates, rewbub an salt;
An if that can't be made to pay,
It willn't be my fault."

"Th' idea's a gooid en," John replied,
"We should ha done 't befoor;
Aw raillee think at if its tried,
We'st neer luk back noa moor.
But whear's th' stock commin throo, mi lass?
That's moor nor aw can tell;
Fowk willn't come an spend ther brass,
Unless yo've stuff to sell."

"Why, wodn't th' maister lend a hand?
Tha knows he's fond o' me;
A five paand nooat wod do it grand -
Awd ax if aw wor thee."
An John did ax, an strange to say
He gat it thear an then;
An Bet wor ne'er i' sich a way -
Fairly besides hersen.

Soa th' haase wor turned into a shop,
An praad they wor, - an Bet
Sed to hersen - "It luks tip top,
Aw'st be a lady yet."
An th' naybors coom throo far an near,
To buy a thing or two,
What they'd paid tuppence for, - why, here
Bet made three awpence do.

When John coom home at neet, his wife
Wor soa uncommon thrang,
At th' furst time in his wedded life,
His drinkin time coom wrang.
He did his best to seem content,
Till shuttin up time coom;
"Why, lass, he said, "thar't fairly spent,
Tha's oppen'd wi a boom."

An ivvery day, to th' end o'th' wick
Browt customers enuff;
But th' stock wor lukkin varry sick,
For shoo'd sell'd all her stuff.
But then, shoo'd bowt a new silk gaon,
An John a silk top hat,
An th' nicest easy chair ith' taan,
An bits o' this an that.

An th' upshot wor, shoo'd spent all th' brass,
An shoo'd nowt left to sell;
An what John sed, - aw'll let that pass
For 'tisn't fit to tell.
Soa th' business brust, but Bet declares,
'Twor nobbut want o' thowt,
For shoo'd sooin ha made a fortun,
If th' stock had cost 'em nowt.

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