THE TURF CUTTER by Moses Teggart, Springfield, Mass. U.S.A. 1901 |
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Don't stand there with your mouth agape! ***** |
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My back is not too stiff to stoop To work - no matter what; So I'll clane out the cow-house groop While you are doin' that. Oh, no! I'm not the laste bit cross, - But now when labour's throng, The turf bank I've pared up the moss, Will crack if left oo long. Now get your old Glengarry cap, - The sun's so hot the day, Most boys would rather peg a tap Than fork wet fams away. Put in the fut boards, graip an' all, The turf-spade, too, I'll wheel; From your wee showlder should it fall It might chip off a heel. Wi' sods filled up its every pit That deep last winter showed, This ramper - since they gravelled it, Is like a country road. That corn is showin' a fine braird! These early sprouts'll do! An' here's the bank that I have pared, An' shovelled smoothly, too. |
Wheest! There's our friend the mosscreeper, Untouched by cant or care, Och, how the lark-like notes of her Make sweet the throbbin' air. These katty turf in the tap graft - So tough, fill me with the hope, The bottom ones, if not too saft, Will cut like yellow soap. Ye might as well cut through a rug, Or grazin' closely clipped! My fut, just now, off the spade lug Wi' heavy pouncin' slipped. Wheel these ones out - but not too far, - That heather height'll do! (Those bells of ling - how sweet they are! How fresh an' rosy, too!) You do not like to cover them Wi' wet turf or wi'dhry? Go on! An' think how many a gem Gets hidden from the eye. Think, too, of the cowld winter nights, The fine warm fireside, The shadows and the shinin' lights No book from you can hide. |
If I could cut down to the clay Through buried sprig an' bell, My summer labour would repay Me in the winter, well. But for the brown moss water here, There isn't half a fall! Indeed, that march this many a year Is no march dhrain at all. When in the hole that lump of bog Fell with a sudden splash, How fast the sickly yellow frog For safety made a dash! Ah! Hese are fine ones! From the spade, How smooth an' clane they slip! Take care! The turf-graip wasn't made Their shinin' sides to rip. Dear me! How long that skylark sings! He's surely in good tune! No dinner-bell his wifie rings, An' yet it must be noon. Wheest! Isn't yon your mother's 'hoagh'? The mugs are on the shelf! Run on, my boy, an' I'll bring Coagh - The craythur, home, myself. |