Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.

A poem by John Hartley

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,
Ov that yo may be sewer;
Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!
An th' biggest wor her yure.
Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,
But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,
They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,
It wor soa varry red.

Young fowk we know are seldom wise, -
Experience taiches wit; -
Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes
Is net as black as jet.
Wol others seem quite in a stew,
An can't tell whear to bide,
'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue, -
An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,
It had a ruddy cast;
An once shoo heeard a silly fop,
Say as he hurried past -
"There goes the girl I'd like to wed, -
'Twould grant my heart's desire;
In spring pull carrots from her head, -
In winter 'twould save fire."

Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned, -
Shoo made a fearful vow,
To have to some fresh color turned
That yure upon her brow.
Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop,
An dyed all sooarts o' things;
An off shoo went withaat a stop,
As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.

Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale,
An tears stood in her ee;
"Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail
If axt, to dye for thee.
What color could ta like it done?
Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can;
We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun,
But aw think aw know a plan."

"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can;
Black's sewer to suit me best;
Aw dooant care if its black an tan, -
Mi life's been sich a pest.
For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't,
Ther's lots noa better bred,
Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight,
Becoss mi yure's soa red."

"Come on ageean to-morn at neet,
Aw'll have all ready, lass;
An if aw connot do it reight
Aw'll ax thi for noa brass."
Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean,
An into bed shoo popt,
Her fowk wor capt what it could meean,
For thear th' next day shoo stopt,

When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd,
An off shoo went to th' place;
Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd,
Or one i' dire disgrace.
"Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah,
It's stewin here i'th' pan;
Aw'll dip thi heead, - hold, - steady nah!
Just bide it if tha can."

Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might,
But as all th' doors wor shut,
He nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet,
It weant do baght its wut.
To leearn mi trade, for twenty year,
Throo morn to neet aw've toiled,
An know at nawther hanks nor heeads,
Are weel dyed unless boiled.

But as tha'rt varry tender,
An aw've takken th' job i' hand,
Aw'll try it rayther cooiler, -
But then, th' color might'nt stand."
An for a while he swilled an slopt,
Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd;
An when he wrung it aght an stopt,
He varry near wor floored.

For wol thrang workin wi' her yure,
He'd been soa taen wi' th' case,
He'd nivver gein a thowt befooar,
Abaat her neck an face.
But nah he saw his sad mistak,
Yet net a word he sed;
Her skin wor all a deep blue black,
Her yure, a dark braan red.

He gate her hooam sooin as he could,
Shoo slyly slipt up stairs;
An chuckled to think ha shoo should
Tak all th' fowk unawares.
Shoo slept that neet just like a top,
Next morn shoo rose content,
Shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop,
An then daan stairs shoo went.

All th' childer screamed as if they'd fits, -
Th' old fowk they stared like mad; -
"Nay, Sally! has ta lost thi wits?
Or has ta seen th' Old Lad?"
Shoo smil'd an sed, "Well, what's to do?"
"Gooid gracious! whear's ta been?
Thi face has turned a breet sky blue,
Thi yure's a bottle green!"

Shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see,
An then her heart stood still;
"That villan sed 'he'd dee for me,'
Aw'll swing for him, aw will!"
An then shoo set her daan o'th flooar,
As if her heart wod braik;
An th' childer gethered raand to rooar,
But th' old fowk nivver spaik.

I' time her grief grew less, ov course,
Shoo raased hersen at last;
Shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse,
For th' color still proved fast.
They sent a bobby after th' chap,
He browt him in a crack;
Says he, "It's been a slight mishap,
Aw've made a small mistak.

But just to prove aw meant noa ill,
Mi offer, friends, is this;
If shoo'll consent to say 'I will,'
Aw'll tak her as shoo is.
Tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed,
That's sewer to wear away;
Aw'd like to own her yure soa red,
Until time turns it grey."

Says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks,
Tha'rt strivin to misleead."
"Nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks,
But tha's fair turned my heead."
"Aw think yo'd better far agree,"
Sed th' old fowk in a breeath;
"Will ta ha me?" "Will ta ha me?"
"An nah we'll stick till deeath."

Sooin after that th' law made 'em one,
An sin that time awm sewer;
He ne'er regretted th' job he'd done,
Nor shoo her ruddy yure.
An when fowk ax'd her ha to get
Sich joy as hers, shoo sed,
"If anxious for some gradely wit,
Just goa an boil thi heead."