The Poor Box Robbery

by Richard Watson

THE POOR BOX ROBBERY
A DIALOGUE

Jᴀᴄᴋ. Good morning, Bob, is tha quite weel?
Bᴏʙ. Aw's varra fresh, man; how's thysel?
Jᴀᴄᴋ. Come, git ti pipe, an' sit down here,
         An' tell ma what thou's gitten queer.

Bᴏʙ. Aw hennut mickle fresh ta tell,
         But aw'l sit down, an' rist mysel,
         For aw's just gannen off ta wark,
         An' winnot be at yam till dark;
         But has tha hear't about t'poor box,
         About how t'rouge's g'yan an' brocken t'locks?
         It's stannen just ahint t'church dour,
         To collect money to gie t'poor.

Jᴀᴄᴋ. Aw nivver hear't on't afore,
         It's quite eneugh ta mak yan glore.
         Ta mak awd t'yals yan's always plannen,
         An that's just like all t'rist ets gannen;
         They git up t'yals to mak a laugh,—
         But awd burds isn't catched wi' caff;
         For't bein true, aw gritly doubt it,—
         But pra'tha tell ma all about it.

Bᴏʙ. Wy, it's as true as can be,
         Them ets menden t'church telt me;
         For it bein' true there is na doubt,
         T'police is tryin' to find it out.

Jᴀᴄᴋ. Wy, pra'tha man, where hes't been?
         Aw thought folk had'nt been sae mean;
         Aw thought sec folk we had'nt had;
         Aw thought our town was not sae bad.

Bᴏʙ. Wy, wy, but there's folks gawn about
         For their awn ends they will stack at nout;
         They'll talk sae nicely and deceive,
         An' run about and rob and thieve;
         But, then, to gan et dyd at neet,
         Or else et mornen 'fore 'twas leet,
         An' gan in t'church, an' paze off t'locks,
         An' gan wid money out et box;
         At sec an hour, at sec a pl'yas,
         Tuv our town's a grit disgry'as.

Jᴀᴄᴋ. Aw dursent a g'yan for fifty pund,
         An' travell't ower t'buryin-grund;
         Aw dursent a g'yan and shown me f'yas
         E' sec a dauly dismal pl'yas.
         For fear some spirit aw sud meet,
         Or boggle, that gans round et neet;
         Or skeletons, wie rattlin' b'yans,
         An' hear their awful dismal gr'yans;
         An' maybe, tu, yan cannot tell,
         But yan mud meet awd Satan's sel'!
         Wi' varry fear 'twad mak ma drop,
         'Twad mak ma varry hair stand up!
         For if aw'd been a thievish man,
         It wad ha' been t'last pl'yace to gan.

Bᴏʙ. Wy, as for boggles, an' sec as that,
         Aw wad care nae mair nor my awd hat;
         Aw cannot think et ghost or warth
         'El ivver travel this awd yearth;
         When they war here they had their share,
         Like thou an' me, o' toil an' care;
         An' them ets g'yan tu t'better land,
         Tu come back here el nut demand;
         An' them at's g'yan tu t'brumstane pit,
         'El hae to suffer where they're at;—
         There's n'yan to notish their request,
         And Satan there el haud them fast.
         When men hae pass'd ower Jordan's river,
         They're dune with this awd yearth for ivver.

Jᴀᴄᴋ. Aw hear't about Dick Turpin bauld,
         How he'd m'yad folk lug out their gauld;
         But Dick wad nivver g'yan, aw shure,
         An' stepped ower t'dyd to steal fra t'poor.
         Wheivver's dune sae mean a theft,
         If they hev ony conscience left,
         Aw wish it now may smite them sore,
         And burn them like a red-het pore!

Bᴏʙ. Wy, thar'll be times, aw dunnot doubt it,
         When they'll be troubled sare about it;
         An' when their sperits are depress'd,
         They'll think et honesty's the best.
         But t'winnot answer, sittin here,
         For aw mun to my wark now steer;
         We'll meet some other time an' crack,
         Sae aw'll bid tha a good morning, Jack.