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Rebel Verses

Год написания книги
2017
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An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,
Makes music for the city folk;
Plays on his fiddle, time, agen
Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen
From shepherds or from waggon-boys
Or men at plough, – or any noise:
He made his tunes out of the air,
From birds or beasts – he didn't care!
An' Parson, says he'll make a name
(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)
As if he ever could agen
Find such a hoam as Martin Fen;
As if he could, by fiddle fad,
Get half the name his feyther had.

Lost in some smoky town he plays
An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,
Of all the things what makes life dear
Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer;
A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,
Sure bound to lose all what he had.
He might a-riz, an' come to be
As high as you, or even me!
An' bin well known the country round
As comfortable, warm, an' sound.

His name is known for many a mile,
It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:
While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!
A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.

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