A Pointer.

A poem by John Hartley

Just listen to mi stooary lads,
It's one will mak yo grieve;
It's full ov sich strange incidents;
Yo hardly can believe.
That lass aw cooarted, went one neet
Aght walkin wi' a swell;
They ovvertuk me on mi way,
An this is what befell.

They tuk me for a finger pooast;
Aw stood soa varry still;
An daan they set beside me,
Just at top o' Beacon Hill.
He sed shoo wor his deary;
Shoo sed he wor her pet;
'Twor an awkward sittiwation
Which aw shall'nt sooin forget.

Aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill, -
They set daan at mi feet;
He hugged her up soa varry cloise,
Aw thowt ther lips must meet.
He sed he loved wi' all his heart,
Shoo fainted reight away;
Aw darsn't luk, - aw darsn't start,
But aw wished misen away.

They tuk me for, &c.

He bathed her temples from the brook;
He sed shoo wor his life,
It made me queer, becoss aw'd sworn
To mak that lass mi wife.
Shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead,
Upon his heavin breast;
An then shoo skriked, an off aw ran,
But aw cannot tell the rest.

They tuk me for, &c.

They wedded wor, sooin after that,
Aw thowt mi heart wod braik; -
It didn't, - soa aw'm livin on,
An freeatin for her sake.
But sweet revenge, - it coom at last,
For childer shoo had three,
An they're all marked wi' a finger pooast
Whear it didn't owt to be.

They tuk me for, &c.

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