Love Poems and Others/Whether or Not

​WHETHER OR NOT

IDunna thee tell me its his’n, mother,   Dunna thee, dunna thee.—Oh ay! he’ll be comin’ to tell thee his-sèn   Wench, wunna he?
Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,   He’s gone wi that——My gel, owt’ll do for a man i’ the dark,   Tha’s got it flat.
But ’er’s old, mother, ’er’s twenty year   Older nor him——Ay, an’ yaller as a crowflower, an’ yet i’ the dark   Er’d do for Tim.
Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?   It’s somebody’s lies.—Ax him thy-sèn wench—a widder’s lodger;   It’s no surprise.
IIA widow of forty-fiveWith a bitter, swarthy skin,To ha’ ’ticed a lad o’ twenty-fiveAn’ ’im to have been took in!
A widow of forty-fiveAs has sludged like a horse all her life,Till ’er’s tough as whit-leather, to sliveAtween a lad an’ ’is wife!
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A widow of forty-five,A tough old otchel wi’ longWitch teeth, an’ ’er black hawk-eyes as I’veMistrusted all along!
An’ me as ’as kep my-senShut like a daisy bud,Clean an’ new an’ nice, so’s whenHe wed he’d ha’e summat good!
An’ ’im as nice an’ freshAs any man i’ the force,To ha’e gone an’ given his white young fleshTo a woman that coarse!
IIIYou’re stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,  Are you makin’ Brinsley way?—I’m off up th’ line to Underwood  Wi’ a dress as is wanted to-day.
Oh are you goin’ to Underwood?  ’Appen then you’ve ’eered?—What’s that as ’appen I’ve ’eered-on, Missis,  Speak up, you nedna be feared.
Why, your young man an’ Widow Naylor,  Her as he lodges wi’,They say he’s got her wi’ childt; but there,  It’s nothing to do wi’ me.
Though if it’s true they’ll turn him out  O’ th’ p’lice force, without fail; ​An’ if it’s not true, I’d back my life  They’ll listen to her tale.
Well, I’m believin’ no tale, Missis,  I’m seein’ for my-sen;An’ when I know for sure, Missis,  I’ll talk then.
IVNay robin red-breast, tha nedna  Sit noddin’ thy head at me;My breast’s as red as thine, I reckon,  Flayed red, if tha could but see.
Nay, you blessed pee-whips,  You nedna screet at me!I’m screetin’ my-sen, but are-na goin’  To let iv’rybody see.
Tha art smock-ravelled, bunny,  Larropin’ neck an’ cropI’ th’ snow: but I’s warrant thee, bunny,  I’m further ower th’ top.
VNow sithee theer at th’ railroad crossin’Warmin’ his-sen at the stool o’ fireUnder the tank as fills the ingines,If there isn’t my dearly-beloved liar!
My constable wi’ ’is buttoned breastAs stout as the truth, my sirs!—An’ ’is face ​As bold as a robin! It’s much he caresFor this nice old shame and disgrace.
Oh but he drops his flag when ’e sees me,Yes, an’ ’is face goes white . . . oh yesTha can stare at me wi’ thy fierce blue eyes,But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!
VIWhativer brings thee out so far  In a’ this depth o’ snow?—I’m takin’ ’ome a weddin’ dress  If tha maun know.
Why, is there a weddin’ at Underwood,  As tha ne’d trudge up here?—It’s Widow Naylor’s weddin’-dress,  An’ ’er’s wantin it, I hear.
’Er doesna want no weddin-dress . . .  What—but what dost mean?—Doesn’t ter know what I mean, Tim?—Yi,  Tha must’ a’ been hard to wean!
Tha’rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;  But tell me, isn’t it trueAs ’er’ll be wantin’ my weddin’ dress  In a week or two?
Tha’s no occasions ter ha’e me on  Lizzie—what’s done is done!—Done, I should think so—Done! But might  I ask when tha begun?
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It’s thee as ’as done it as much as me,  Lizzie, I tell thee that.—“Me gotten a childt to thy landlady—!”  Tha’s gotten thy answer pat,
As tha allers hast—but let me tell thee  Hasna ter sent me whoam, when IWas a’most burstin’ mad o’ my-sen  An’ walkin’ in agony;
After thy kisses, Lizzie, after  Tha’s lain right up to me Lizzie, an’ meltedInto me, melted into me, Lizzie,  Till I was verily swelted.
An’ if my landlady seed me like it,  An’ if ’er clawkin’, tiger’s eyesWent through me just as the light went out  Is it any cause for surprise?
No cause for surprise at all, my lad,  After lickin’ and snuffin’ at me, tha couldTurn thy mouth on a woman like her—  Did ter find her good?
Ay, I did, but afterwards  I should like to ha’ killed her!—Afterwards—an’ after how long  Wor it tha’d liked to ’a killed her?
Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,  I might lose my-sen.—I’ll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,  An’ gi’e her thee back again.
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I’ll ta’e thy word ‘Good-bye,’ Liz,  But I shonna marry her,I shonna for nobody.—It is  Very nice on you, Sir.
The childt maun ta’e its luck, it maun,  An’ she maun ta’e her luck,For I tell ye I shonna marry her—  What her’s got, her took.
That’s spoken like a man, Timmy,  That’s spoken like a man . . .“He up an’ fired off his pistol  An’ then away he ran.”
I damn well shanna marry ’er,  So chew at it no more,Or I’ll chuck the flamin’ lot of you—  —You nedn’t have swore.
VIIThat’s his collar round the candle-stickAn’ that’s the dark blue tie I bought ’im,An’ these is the woman’s kids he’s so fond on,An’ ’ere comes the cat that caught ’im.
I dunno where his eyes was—a gretRound-shouldered hag! My sirs, to thinkOf him stoopin’ to her! You’d wonder he couldThrow hisself in that sink.
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I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor!  —Who yer are?—yis, you’re Lizzie Stainwright.’An ’appen you might guess what I’ve come for?  —’Appen I mightn’t, ’appen I might.
You knowed as I was courtin’ Tim Merfin.  —Yis, I knowed ’e wor courtin’ thee.An’ yet you’ve been carryin’ on wi’ him.  —Ay, an’ ’im wi’ me.
Well, now you’ve got to pay for it,  —An’ if I han, what’s that to thee?For ’e isn’t goin’ to marry you.  —Is it a toss-up ’twixt thee an’ me?
It’s no toss-up ’twixt thee an’ me.  —Then what art colleyfoglin’ for?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.
VIIITo think I should ha’e to haffle an’ caffle  Wi’ a woman, an’ pay ’er a priceFor lettin’ me marry the lad as I thought  To marry wi’ cabs an’ rice.
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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.
IXTake 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 thyFace was the finest thing that iver  Met my eye. . . .
XTwenty 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 buyAll 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 beSo very much worser off than ’er wor before—An’ now look upAn’ 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 eyesAs sulky an’ ormin’ as thine. Hast owt to say otherwiseFrom 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.
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