by William Barnes
Why ees, aunt Anne's a little staïd,
But kind an' merry, poor wold maïd!
If we don't cut her heart wi' slights,
She'll zit an' put our things to rights,
Upon a hard day's work, o' nights;
But zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier,
An' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er.
When she is in her tantrums.
She'll toss her head, a-steppèn out
Such strides, an' fling the païls about;
An' slam the doors as she do goo,
An' kick the cat out wi' her shoe,
Enough to het her off in two.
The bwoys do bundle out o' house,
A-lassen they should get a towse,
When aunt is in her tantrums.
She whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl
In such a veag at my poor poll;
It brush'd the heäir above my crown,
An' whizz'd on down upon the groun',
An' knock'd the bantam cock right down,
But up he sprung, a-teäkèn flight
Wi' tothers, cluckèn in a fright,
Vrom aunt in such a tantrum!
But Dick stole in, an' reach'd en down
The biggest blather to be voun',
An' crope an' put en out o' zight
Avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight
An crack'd en wi' the slice thereright
She scream'd, an' bundled out o' house,
An' got so quiet as a mouse,--
It frighten'd off her tantrum.
Last updated January 14, 2019