The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cornish Catches, and Other Verses

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Title: Cornish Catches, and Other Verses

Author: Bernard Moore

Release date: January 13, 2012 [eBook #38565]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Stephanie McKee and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CORNISH CATCHES, AND OTHER VERSES ***

CORNISH CATCHES

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The Author begs to thank the Editors of the following papers for their courtesy in allowing him to reprint some of the poems in this book:—The Academy, Country Life, Fry's Magazine, the Grand Magazine, the Sphere, T.P's Magazine, the Vineyard, the Windsor Magazine, the Western Morning News, and the Westminster Gazette.

Hutton, Advertiser Press, Ormskirk.

CORNISH CATCHES

AND OTHER VERSES

BY

BERNARD MOORE

LONDON

ERSKINE MACDONALD

1914

TO MY MOTHER.

	Page
Well, there 'tis	9
Gardens	10
Grocery	12
Eddication	14
Jenny	16
In the Kittereen	17
Maids	18
Cap'n John	19
Dolly Pentreath	20
Sunday in the Cornish Port	22
Granfer's Proverbs	24
A Cornish Seining Song	25
"How be'ee, me deear?"	26
"What have'ee catched?"	27
A Mevagissey Haul	28
Dicky	30
The Old Fisherman's Lament	31
a Looe Lay	32
On the Kay (quay).	33
Riches	34
A Fireside Spell	35
Cornish Comfort	36
"I mind me"	37
"Sure 'nuff"	38
II.
"The Garment of Time"	40
In a Garden	41
Sorrow's Courage	42
A Choosing	43
Star Signs	44
The Old Knight's Song	45
Fealty	47
Treasure Trove	48
Roses and Rue	49
Definitions	50
Blue Sky	51
Shadows	52
When I was a Lad	53
A Call	55
The Return	56
In the Bay	58
Sea Foam	59
Echoes	60
A Ballade of Cornwall	61
The Fisherman's Prayer	63

WELL, THERE 'TIS

Well, there 'tis. You wakes up cryin' an' callin', You'm cold an' hungered, an' skeered o' the turble dark; It feels most like a gert black cloud's a fallin' To crunch you to nothin', an' leave you smuttered an' stark. But a kind hand comes when the gert black clouds would drownd you, An' a warm breast holds you tight to cuddle an' kiss, An' you know that the world o' Love be all around you. Well! there 'tis.

Then you grows a bit, and you finds a mort o' pleasure In the rush o' the waves an' the roarin' wind in the sky; An' you plays your games at Pirates seekin' treasure, Or Penny-come-quick when the Breton Boys go by. An' you don't much trouble at difrent kinds o' weather, If 'tis sunny 'tis sunny, but rain won't make you miss The chance to trample away thro' the moorland heather; Well! there 'tis.

But you keeps on growin', an' then you begin in a fashion To want some things you'd never a thought on before; An' you sees some eyes be blue, an' you gets a passion For jest a very perticlar cottage door. An' you don't feel tired at the end o' the day o' toilin' So long as it ends with the sound an' song of a kiss, So long as it ends with arms round you coilin'; Well! there 'tis.

Then you grows old, an' at last you falls on sleepin'. Do you count you'll be all alone in the turble dark? Do you think you'll be left to the sound o' wailin' an' weepin' Lonely an' cold in the cloam, unmothered an' stark? When you was a baby, helpless an' cryin' an' callin' Didn' the kind arms take, an' the warm lips kiss? An' won't there be Arms at last, to save you from fallin'? Well! there 'tis.

GARDENS

Passun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty, He'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow; He'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns, An' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know.

Squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden, With hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun; He likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches, An' thinks as what the passun grows the whishtest sort o' fun.

Feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers, For he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things; His cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder, An' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings!

But I've a finer garden than the squire or the passun; 'Tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; It stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'Tis sweet with Cornish sunshine an' green with Cornish rains.

There's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, An' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass, An' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, A ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass.

An' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, The heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; An' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, An' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills.

So squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', An' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (I won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), But the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine.

GROCERY

John Pengelly be a clever man, An' he keeps a grocery store; He've got a seat on the Burryin' Board, An' a sow as turns three score; On Sunday night he holds the plate An' on Thursday shuts at four.

He talks to Passon on clover crops, An' Farmer Hain on Sin; An' keeps the Parish Register, An' a dog that isn' thin; An' wears a watch-chain on his chest, An' a Moses beard on his chin.

He allays takes the rhubarb prize At the Flower Show every year; An' if 'ee mind to order it He'll get 'ee Bottled Beer; (Though some as don't agree with that) Besides it's rather dear.

Two different kinds of lard he sells, But awnly one of tay; An' he've a yaller oilskin coat He hopes to sell some day, But the awnly man it might have fit Was drownded out to say.

His matches hang in a cabbage net, An' his onions hang in strings; An' allays at the Church Bazaar He sells the Hooplar rings; An' if us get a concert up An' there's no one else, he sings.

So be you'm seekin' clever men, Come down along o' we; We'll show 'ee John Pengelly then Behind his grocery; An' when you taste his peppermints, Sure 'nuff, tis mazed you'll be.

EDDICATION

Feyther sez as "Larnin' be the proper trade for boys," An' so us have to go to school, an' dursn't make a noise, But jest sits on a form an' hears what schoolmaister do say, An' all the time we'm thinkin' how the boats go in the bay.

There's different kinds o' larnin', an' there's some I can't abide, They'm worse than swimmin' round the Main at ebbin' o' the tide. I likes the tales o' travels an' at readin' do be praised, An' I'm dacent doin' Adders, but Goseinters send me mazed.

The Bible stories baint so bad excep' the fat head calf, An' when schoolmaister tells of 'ee I allays wants to laugh; Our Kitty likes the donkeys as was found by Sunno Kish, But I likes best the tale about Ole Peter an' the fish.

Schoolmaister knaws a mort o' things as baint a bit o' use; I've heered un tell the biggest boys about high potty mews; But if he had to earn his bread, the same as feyther do, I count he'd soon belong to know it wasn' much he knew.

One day he gave a sum about a herrin' an' a half, An' sez as how the boys was rude when they began to laugh; He must a been a bufflehead to think as people bought Half herrins, when we'm bringin' 'em by thousans into port.

I'm allays sittin' thinkin' when he'm talkin' to the board, About the many things there be a boy can larn aboard; There's sheets to haul an' gear to staw an' reefs to take an' tie, An' wind to watch acomin' in the corner of your eye.

Now if they larned us some o' these, or how to bend a hook, 'Twould be a darned sight usefuller than rubbige in a book; But what's the good o' larnin' how to hold a scriggley pen, An' spell a lot of orkard words, an' say to ten times ten?

'Tis little use to grumble when 'ee have to keep the rules, An' jest so long as there be boys, I count there must be schools; An' tho' they'm good for larnin' if 'ee awnly knaws the way, I'd sooner be a whifflin' arter mack'rel in the bay.

JENNY

When Jenny goes a milkin' in the dewy time o' morn I allays be contrivin' to be callin' at the farm, For her cheeks be red as roses an' her hair like rippled corn, An' I be fairly mazed to kiss the dimple on her arm.

Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? You'm brighter far than any star That's shinin' up above 'ee. Sartin sure, you make me mazed, Iss, me deear, a whist an' crazed; Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee?

When Jenny goes to Fairin' with blue ribbons in her hair, I count the Queen of England never looks a half as sweet, An' when she'm in the Country dance no other maids be there, For I never stops a glazin' at the twinkle of her feet.

Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? Aw——But!!!

When Jenny goes to Mittin' House dressed in her Sunday clo'es She looks so like a hangell in her little pew apart, That when I try to sing the hymns my throttle seems to close, An' I cussn't hear the sermon for the beatin' of my heart.

Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? You'm brighter far than any star That's shinin' up above 'ee; Sartin sure, you make me mazed, Iss, me deear, a whisht an' crazed; Jenny, Jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee?

IN THE KITTEREEN

(Kittereen: Cornish for a covered cart).

Jenny an' me in the Kittereen Drove to Callington Fair; There wasn' much more than a foot between Jenny an' me in the Kittereen For both of us was just thirteen, An' of course us didn' care.

Jenny an' me in the Kittereen Drove from Callington Fair; There wasn' much more than an inch between Jenny an' me in the Kittereen For both of us was just fifteen With a packet of pops to share.

Jenny an' me in the Kittereen Drove to Callington Fair; There wasn' much less than a yard between Jenny an' me in the Kittereen For both of us was just seventeen An' both knew the other was there.

Jenny an' me in the Kittereen Drove from Callington Fair; There was very much less than an inch between Jenny an' me in the Kittereen For wasn' we both of us turned nineteen? An' wasn' there Love to share?

MAIDS

I've knawed a many o' Devon maids with cheeks merry an' red, They'm pleasant an' 'ansum single, an' homely an' cosy wed; But I shan't marry a Devon maid; I reckon I'd rather be dead.

I've seed a many o' London maids abroad in London Town; They'm larky an' flittery single, but marryin' calms 'em down; But I shan't marry a London maid; I reckon I'd rather drown.

For I have knawed the Cornish maids, an' like 'em best of any. So take the London an' Devon maids, they'm goin' at two a penny; An' I shan't marry nobody else, for I be tokened to Jenny.

CAP'N JOHN

Cap'n John has been to Frisky, Injy an' Australy too; Now he runs a lug-an'-mizzen Arter Pilchers out o' Looe, Iss, he do.

Cap'n John was braave an' slippey Till the say catched hold of he; Now he'm tanned an' tough an' wrinkled, Simming like mohogany. Iss, he be.

Cap'n John baint smurt an' 'ansum, Like a claned up Sarvice Coor; Stiff hair all aroun' his niddick Makes him like a hedgaboor. Iss, be Gor!

Cap'n John don't boast o' beauty, Beauty don't set down with tar; But he've got a pair o' patches Shows how dacent patches are. Iss, with tar.

Cap'n John thinks books is rubbige; Sez that printin' spoils his eyes; But he reads the book o' weather Written in the say an' skies; Iss, he's wise.

Cap'n John, us looks towards 'ee, Wish 'ee luck when shuttin' seine, Wish 'ee tummals at the jowstin', Wish 'ee out an' home again. Clink you'm cider at the call, "Cap'n John, an' One an' All."

DOLLY PENTREATH

Dolly Pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to Paul; But Dolly Pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of One and All. Her smoked an' snuffed, an' the cusses her knowed was mortal hard to bate, But her carried her creel like a Mousehole maid, an' allays selled out her cate.

Her wern't afeerd at livin' alone, an' many a tale is told, As shows as how her face was brass, but her heart was true as gold. One day a sailor had tooked his leave afore his leave was given, An' knowed if they catched him the yard arm rope would show him the way to Heaven,

So he scatted to Dolly, an' jest in time her thought of the chimley wide, An' her collared him hold by the slack of his breeks an' shoved him up inside. Cussin' an' fussin' they searchers came, but awnly Dolly they sees, Washin' her feet in her old oak keeve, with her petticoat up to her knees.

An' didn' her give them a tang o' tongue, an' didn' her cuss them sweet, For thinkin' her'd let a man bide there an' see her washin' her feet? But her called the loudest cusses of all, an' scraiched like a rat at a stoat, When the sailor gave a chokely cough for the fuzzen smoke in his throat.

The storm her raised drove the buffleheads out a grumpling into the street, An' the sailor washed hisself in the keeve where Dolly had washed her feet.

* * * * Dolly Pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to Paul; But Dolly Pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of One and All.

SUNDAY IN THE CORNISH PORT

There b'aint no fishin' in the bay, The boats be moored 'longside the kay, With sails reefed in an' stawed away, An' all so calm an' still— Excep' the ripple o' the tide, An' gulls awheelin' up 'longside The clifts, to where the Church do bide Atop the Flag-staff Hill.

Above the Slip where boats be moored The cottage doors be set abroad, An' singin' voices praise the Lord For mercies which endure; An' happy childer in the street, Dressed all so vitty, clane, an' neat, Puts somethin' in the music sweet It didn' had before.

Now every fisherman be dressed In shiny suit o' black for best, As fittin' to the Day o' Rest, An' sign o' Death to Sin; The jerseys in the lockers bide, For Sunday knaws its proper pride, An' likes to show a clane outside To match the heart within.

Mid mornin', Church bell clangs a call. An' some don't take no heed at all, But some goes up the hill to Paul, An' some to Chapel goes; Whilst some strolls down upon the kay, An' sits an' spits into the say; But all the same, they knaws the Day, An' doesn' dirt their clo'es.

But whether Church be right or b'aint, Or Mittin' Houses make'ee faint, Or whether you'm a solemn saint Or jest a cheerful sinner, For sartin, not so long by noon, You'll all be playin' the same tune Wi' knife an' fork an' mebbe spoon, Asettin' down to dinner.

Then mos'ly us do strawl away Along the clifts that line the bay, Though some prefers a dish o' tay An' snooze along the settle; But whether we'm been far or near, We'm never losted, don't 'ee fear. We'm allays home in time to hear The singin' o' the kettle.

An' when the Sun, a lantern red Asinkin' at the World's mast-head, Goes down, then us goes home to bed: An' so us ends the Sunday. For Sunday 'tis the Day o' days, When all the fish do as 'em plaise, While in the little port we prays A banger catch for Monday.