Poems by "Cushag"/The Gable of the House

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search


WHAT was there doin' on her?
Aw dade, its hard to say.
She wasn' for complainin'
But goin'—night an' day.
Aw, well; there's no wan at me now
To make the bed or milk the cow!

The cough was subjec' to her,
Aw teerin', teerin' still;
She wore it out upon her feet
Yon time that I was ill.
Aw, well; I'm sick enough for all;
But she's not hearin' when I call.

The times I'd not be sleepin'
She'd up an' have a light,
An' do a bit of readin'—
But failin' in her sight.
Aw, well; I'm lyin' lonely now,
An' who's to go an' milk the cow?

Ay! Goin' goin' still,
Nor never warmed a cheer,
Its like she'll tire of sittin' quite,
The way she'll be up theer,
Like wearin' out her Sunday gown
An' longin' still for us that's down.

They're tellin' me to rise,
Me clo'es is on the chiss,
Aw, well, I havn' got no heart,
An' that's the way it iss!
What use of me above the groun'!
The gable of the house is down!