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Title: Getting Stout
Author: William Henry Drummond [
More Titles by Drummond]
Eighteen, an' face lak de--w'at 's de good?
Dere 's no use tryin' explain
De way she 's lookin', dat girl Marie--
But affer it pass, de rain,
An' sun come out of de cloud behin',
An' laugh on de sky wance more--
Wall! dat is de way her eye it shine
W'en she see me upon de door.
An' dere she 's workin' de ole-tam sash,
De fines' wan, too, for sure.
"Who is it for, ma belle Marie--
You 're makin' de nice ceinture?
Come out an' sit on de shore below,
For watchin' dem draw de net,
Ketchin' de feesh," an' she answer, "No,
De job is n't finish yet;
"Stan' up, Narcisse, an' we 'll see de fit.
Dat sash it was mak' for you,
For de ole wan 's gettin' on, you know,
An' o' course it 'll never do
If de boy I marry can't go an' spen'
W'at dey 're callin' de weddin' tour
Wit' me, for visitin' all hees frien',
An' not have a nice ceinture."
An' den she measure dat sash on me,
An' I fin' it so long an' wide
I pass it aroun' her, an' dere we stan',
De two of us bote inside--
"Could n't be better, ma chere Marie,
Dat sash it is fit so well--
It jus' suit you, an' it jus' suit me,
An' bote togeder, ma belle."
So I wear it off on de weddin' tour
An' long after dat also,
An' never a minute I 'm carin' how
De win' of de winter blow--
Don't matter de cole an' frosty night--
Don't matter de stormy day,
So long as I 'm feex up close an' tight
Wit' de ole ceinture fleche.
An' w'ere 's de woman can beat her now,
Ma own leetle girl Marie?
For we 're marry to-day jus' feefty year
An' never a change I see--
But wan t'ing strange, dough I try ma bes'
For measure dat girl wance more,
She say--"Go off wit' de foolishness,
Or pass on de outside door.
"You know well enough dat sash get tight
Out on de snow an' wet
Drivin' along on ev'ry place,
Den how can it fit me yet?
Shows w'at a fool you be, Narcisse,
W'enever you go to town;
Better look out, or I call de pries'
For makin' you stan' aroun'."
But me, I 'm sure it was never change,
Dat sash on de feefty year--
An' I can't understan' to-day at all,
W'at 's makin' it seem so queer--
De sash is de sam', an' woman too,
Can't fool me, I know too well--
But woman, of course dey offen do
Some funny t'ing--you can't tell!
[The end]
William Henry Drummond's poem: Getting Stout
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