Marra to BonneyWhat would you do wi’ a doughter—Pray wi’ her, bensil[1]her, flout her?—Say, what would you do wi’ a daughterThat’s marra to Bonney[2]hissen?I prayed wi’ her first, of a Sunday,When chapil was lowsin’ for t’ neet;An’ I laid all her cockaloft marlocks[3]’Fore th’ Almighty’s mercy-seat.When I looked for her tears o’ repentance,I jaloused[4]that I saw her laugh;An’ she said that t’ Powers o’ JusticeWould scatter my words like chaff.Then I bensilled her hard in her cham’er,As I bensils owd Neddy i’ t’ cart.If prayers willent teach thee, my dolly,Happen whip-stock will mak thy tears start.But she stood there as chuff as a mawmet,[5]Not one chunt’rin[6]word did she say:But she hoped that t’ blooid o’ t’ martyrsWould waish all my sins away.Then I thought, mebbe floutin’ will mend her;So I watched while she cam out o’ t’ mill,And afore all yon Wyke lads an’ lassesI fleered at her reight up our hill.She winced when she heeard all their girnin’,Then she whispered, a sob i’ her throat:“I reckon I’ll noan think o’ weddin’While women are given their vote.”What would you do wi’ a doughter—Pray wi’ her, bensil her, flout her?—Say, what would you do wi’ a daughterThat’s marra to Bonney hissen?[1]Beat.[2]A match for Bonaparte.[3]Conceited tricks.[4]Suspected.[5]As proud as an idol.[6]Grumbling.
What would you do wi’ a doughter—Pray wi’ her, bensil[1]her, flout her?—Say, what would you do wi’ a daughterThat’s marra to Bonney[2]hissen?I prayed wi’ her first, of a Sunday,When chapil was lowsin’ for t’ neet;An’ I laid all her cockaloft marlocks[3]’Fore th’ Almighty’s mercy-seat.When I looked for her tears o’ repentance,I jaloused[4]that I saw her laugh;An’ she said that t’ Powers o’ JusticeWould scatter my words like chaff.Then I bensilled her hard in her cham’er,As I bensils owd Neddy i’ t’ cart.If prayers willent teach thee, my dolly,Happen whip-stock will mak thy tears start.But she stood there as chuff as a mawmet,[5]Not one chunt’rin[6]word did she say:But she hoped that t’ blooid o’ t’ martyrsWould waish all my sins away.Then I thought, mebbe floutin’ will mend her;So I watched while she cam out o’ t’ mill,And afore all yon Wyke lads an’ lassesI fleered at her reight up our hill.She winced when she heeard all their girnin’,Then she whispered, a sob i’ her throat:“I reckon I’ll noan think o’ weddin’While women are given their vote.”What would you do wi’ a doughter—Pray wi’ her, bensil her, flout her?—Say, what would you do wi’ a daughterThat’s marra to Bonney hissen?
[1]Beat.
[2]A match for Bonaparte.
[3]Conceited tricks.
[4]Suspected.
[5]As proud as an idol.
[6]Grumbling.