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

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An’ watched what ’er ’ad on.

      Tha should ha’ seed her slive up when we’d gone,

       Tha should ha’ seed her kneel an’ look in

       At th’ sloppy wet grave—an’ ’er little neck shone

       That white, an’ ’er shook that much, I’d like to begin

      Scraïghtin’ my-sen as well. ’En undid her black

       Jacket at th’ bosom, an’ took from out of it

       Over a double ’andful of violets, all in a pack

       Ravelled blue and white—warm, for a bit

      O’ th’ smell come waftin’ to me. ’Er put ’er face

       Right intil ’em and scraïghted out again,

       Then after a bit ’er dropped ’em down that place,

       An’ I come away, because o’ the teemin’ rain.

      Whether or Not

       Table of Contents

      I

      Dunna 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.

      II

      A widow of forty-five

       With a bitter, swarthy skin,

       To ha’ ’ticed a lad o’ twenty-five

       An’ ’im to have been took in!

      A widow of forty-five

       As has sludged like a horse all her life,

       Till ’er’s tough as whit-leather, to slive

       Atween a lad an’ ’is wife!

      A widow of forty-five.

       A tough old otchel wi’ long

       Witch teeth, an’ ’er black hawk-eyes as I’ve

       Mistrusted all along!

      An’ me as ’as kep my-sen

       Shut like a daisy bud,

       Clean an’ new an’ nice, so’s when

       He wed he’d ha’e summat good!

      An’ ’im as nice an’ fresh

       As any man i’ the force,

       To ha’e gone an’ given his white young flesh

       To a woman that coarse!

      III

      You’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.

      IV

      Nay 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’ crop I’ th’ snow: but I’s warrant thee, bunny, I’m further ower th’ top.

      V

      Now sithee theer at th’ railroad crossin’

       Warmin’ his-sen at the stool o’ fire

       Under the tank as fills the ingines,

       If there isn’t my dearly-beloved liar!

      My constable wi’ ’is buttoned breast

       As stout as the truth, my sirs!—An’ ’is face

       As bold as a robin! It’s much he cares

       For this nice old shame and disgrace.

      Oh but he drops his flag when ’e sees me,

       Yes, an’ ’is face goes white ... oh yes

       Tha can stare at me wi’ thy fierce blue eyes,

       But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!

      VI

      Whativer 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 true

       As ’er’ll be wantin’ my weddin’ dress In a week or two?

      Tha’s

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