Sarah Ann
By W.F. Marshall
I’ll change me way of goin’, for me head is gettin’ grey,
I’m tormented washin’ dishes, an’ makin’ dhraps o’ tay;
The kitchen’s like a midden, an’ the parlour’s like a sty,
There’s half a fut of clabber on the street outby:
I’ll go down agane the morra on me kailey to the Cross
For I’ll hif to get a wumman, or the place’ll go to loss.
I’ve fothered all the kettle, an’ there’s nothin’ afther that
But clockin’ roun’ the ashes wi’ an oul Tom cat;
Me very ears is bizzin’ from the time I light the lamp,
An’ the place is like a graveyard, bar the mare wud give a stamp,
So often I be thinkin’ an’ conthrivin’ for a plan
Of how to make the match agane with Robert’s Sarah Ann.
I used to make wee Robert’s of a Sunday afther prayers,
— Sarah Ann wud fetch the taypot to the parlour up the stairs;
An’ wance a week for sartin I’d be chappin’ at the dure,
There wosn’t wan wud open it but her, ye may be sure;
An’ then — for all wos goin’ well — I got a neighbour man
n’ tuk him down to spake for me, an’ ax for Sarah Ann.
Did ye iver know wee Robert? Well, he’s nothin’ but a wart,
A nearbegone oul’ divil with a wee black heart,
A crooked, crabbit crathur that bees neither well nor sick,
Girnin’ in the chimley corner, or goan happin’ on a stick;
Sure ye min’ the girl for hirin’ that went shoutin’ thro’ the fair,
‘I wunthered in wee Robert’s, I can summer anywhere.’
I’m tormented washin’ dishes, an’ makin’ dhraps o’ tay;
The kitchen’s like a midden, an’ the parlour’s like a sty,
There’s half a fut of clabber on the street outby:
I’ll go down agane the morra on me kailey to the Cross
For I’ll hif to get a wumman, or the place’ll go to loss.
I’ve fothered all the kettle, an’ there’s nothin’ afther that
But clockin’ roun’ the ashes wi’ an oul Tom cat;
Me very ears is bizzin’ from the time I light the lamp,
An’ the place is like a graveyard, bar the mare wud give a stamp,
So often I be thinkin’ an’ conthrivin’ for a plan
Of how to make the match agane with Robert’s Sarah Ann.
I used to make wee Robert’s of a Sunday afther prayers,
— Sarah Ann wud fetch the taypot to the parlour up the stairs;
An’ wance a week for sartin I’d be chappin’ at the dure,
There wosn’t wan wud open it but her, ye may be sure;
An’ then — for all wos goin’ well — I got a neighbour man
n’ tuk him down to spake for me, an’ ax for Sarah Ann.
Did ye iver know wee Robert? Well, he’s nothin’ but a wart,
A nearbegone oul’ divil with a wee black heart,
A crooked, crabbit crathur that bees neither well nor sick,
Girnin’ in the chimley corner, or goan happin’ on a stick;
Sure ye min’ the girl for hirin’ that went shoutin’ thro’ the fair,
‘I wunthered in wee Robert’s, I can summer anywhere.’
But all the same wee Robert has a shap an’ farm o’ lan’,
Ye’d think he’d do it dacent when it come to Sarah Ann;
She bid me ax a hundther’d, an’ we worked him up an’ down,
The deil a hate he’d give her but a cow an’ twenty poun’;
I pushed for twenty more forbye to help to build a byre,
But ye might as well be talkin’ to the stone behin’ the fire.
So says I till John, me neighbour, ‘Sure we’re only lossin’ time,
Jist let him keep his mollye, I can do without her prime,
Jist let him keep his daughther, the hungry-lukin’ nur,
There’s jist as chancy weemin, in the countryside as her.’
Man, he let a big thravalley, an’ he sent us both — ye know,
But Sarah busted cryin’, for she seen we maned till go.
Ay she fell till the cryin’, for ye know she isn’t young,
She’s nearly past her market, but she’s civil with her tongue.
That’s half a year or thereaways, an’ here I’m sittin’ yit,
I’ll change me way of goin’, ay I’ll do it while I’m fit,
She’s a snug well-doin’ wumman, no betther in Tyrone,
An’ down I’ll go the morra, for I’m far too long me lone.
The night the win’ is risin’, an’ it’s comin’ on to sleet,
It’s spittin’ down the chimley on the greeshig at me feet,
It’s whisslin’ at the windy, an’ it’s roarin’ roun’ the barn,
There’ll be piles of snow the morra on more than Mullagharn;
But I’m for tacklin’ Sarah Ann; no matter if the snow
Is iverywhere shebowin’; when the morra comes I’ll go.
Ye’d think he’d do it dacent when it come to Sarah Ann;
She bid me ax a hundther’d, an’ we worked him up an’ down,
The deil a hate he’d give her but a cow an’ twenty poun’;
I pushed for twenty more forbye to help to build a byre,
But ye might as well be talkin’ to the stone behin’ the fire.
So says I till John, me neighbour, ‘Sure we’re only lossin’ time,
Jist let him keep his mollye, I can do without her prime,
Jist let him keep his daughther, the hungry-lukin’ nur,
There’s jist as chancy weemin, in the countryside as her.’
Man, he let a big thravalley, an’ he sent us both — ye know,
But Sarah busted cryin’, for she seen we maned till go.
Ay she fell till the cryin’, for ye know she isn’t young,
She’s nearly past her market, but she’s civil with her tongue.
That’s half a year or thereaways, an’ here I’m sittin’ yit,
I’ll change me way of goin’, ay I’ll do it while I’m fit,
She’s a snug well-doin’ wumman, no betther in Tyrone,
An’ down I’ll go the morra, for I’m far too long me lone.
The night the win’ is risin’, an’ it’s comin’ on to sleet,
It’s spittin’ down the chimley on the greeshig at me feet,
It’s whisslin’ at the windy, an’ it’s roarin’ roun’ the barn,
There’ll be piles of snow the morra on more than Mullagharn;
But I’m for tacklin’ Sarah Ann; no matter if the snow
Is iverywhere shebowin’; when the morra comes I’ll go.
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