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

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      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 he’ll make—there niver

       Was such a man for a fuss

       If anything ailed him—at any rate

       I shan’t have him to nuss.

      I do hope it’s not very bad!

       Eh, what a shame it seems

       As some should ha’e hardly a smite o’ trouble

       An’ others has reams.

      It’s a shame as ’e should be knocked about

       Like this, I’m sure it is!

       He’s had twenty accidents, if he’s had one;

       Owt bad, an’ it’s his.

      There’s one thing, we’ll have peace for a bit,

       Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;

       An’ there’s compensation, sin’ it’s accident,

       An’ club money—I nedn’t grouse.

      An’ a fork an’ a spoon he’ll want, an’ what else;

       I s’ll never catch that train—

       What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt—

       I s’d think he’ll get right again.

      The Drained Cup

       Table of Contents

      The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress

       Love, should I tell thee summat?

       The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress

       An’ a thick mist sucks at the clots o’ snow,

       An’ the moon above in a weddin’ dress

       Goes fogged an’ slow—

       Love, should I tell thee summat?

      Tha’s been snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me,

       Nay, I’m tellin’ thee summat.—

       Tha’s bin snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me

       While th’ clocks has a’ run down an’ stopped

       An’ the short days withering silently

       Unbeknown have dropped.

       —Yea, but I’m tellin’ thee summat.

      How many days dost think has gone?—

       Now I’m tellin’ thee summat.

       How many days dost think has gone?

       How many days has the candle-light shone

       On us as tha got more white an’ wan?

       —Seven days, or none—

       Am I not tellin’ thee summat?

      Tha come to bid farewell to me—

       Tha’rt frit o’ summat.

       To kiss me and shed a tear wi’ me,

       Then off and away wi’ the weddin’ ring

       For the girl who was grander, and better than me

       For marrying—

       Tha’rt frit o’ summat?

      I durstna kiss thee tha trembles so,

       Tha’rt frit o’ summat.

       Tha arena very flig to go,

       ’Appen the mist from the thawin’ snow

       Daunts thee—it isna for love, I know,

       That tha’rt loath to go.

       —Dear o’ me, say summat.

      Maun tha cling to the wa’ as tha goes,

       So bad as that?

       Tha’lt niver get into thy weddin’ clothes

       At that rate—eh, theer goes thy hat;

       Ne’er mind, good-bye lad, now I lose

       My joy, God knows,

       —An’ worse nor that.

      The road goes under the apple tree;

       Look, for I’m showin’ thee summat.

       An’ if it worn’t for the mist, tha’d see

       The great black wood on all sides o’ thee

       Wi’ the little pads going cunningly

       To ravel thee.

       So listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.

      When tha comes to the beechen avenue,

       I’m warnin’ thee o’ summat.

       Mind tha shall keep inwards, a few

       Steps to the right, for the gravel pits

       Are steep an’ deep wi’ watter, an’ you

       Are scarce o’ your wits.

       Remember, I’ve warned the o’ summat.

      An’ mind when crossin’ the planken bridge,

       Again I warn ye o’ summat.

       Ye slip not on the slippery ridge

       Of the thawin’

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