Seaside. (prose) Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: A| Iverybody 'at is owt is awther just settin' off or just gettin' back throo th' spaws Ther's nowt like th' sea breeze But a chum o' mine says th' sea breeze is a fooil to Saltaire but he cannot mak me believe it Ther's nowt ever suits me as weel at Blackpool as to see a lot o' cheap trippers 'at's just com'd for a day they mean to enjoy thersen Yo can see that as sooin as iver th' train claps 'em daan away they steer to have a luk at th' watter Ther's th' fayther comes th' furst wi' th' youngest child in his arms an' one or two rayther bigger poolin' 'at his coit laps an' just behund is his owd lass puffin' and blowin' like a steam engine her face as red as a rising sun an' a basket ov her arm big enuff for a oyster hawker At one corner on it yo con see a black bottle neck peepin' aat At th' side on her walks th' owdest lass an' isn't shoo doin' it grand for owt shoo knows Luk what fine ribbons shoo has flyin' daan her back an' a brass ring ov her finger varry near big enuff to mak a dog's collar on an' a cotton parasol 'at luks ivery bit as weel as a silk 'un and yo con see as shoo tosses her heead first to one side an then to tother 'at shoo defies awther yo or onybody else to tell 'at shoo's nobbut a calico wayver when shoo's at hooam But they get aside o'th' watter at last Ha what a wopper says one o'th' lads as a wave comes rollin' ovver A'a but that's a gurter says another Then th' father an' th' mother puts th' young uns all in a row an' tell 'em all to luk at th' sea as if ther wor owt else to luk at i' Blackpool But yo may see at th' owd lass isn't comfortable for shoo keeps peepin' into her basket an' at last shoo says Joa aw believe sombdy's had ther fooit i'th' basket for th' pasty's brusscn an th' pot wi' th' mustard in is brockken all to bits Neer heed if that's all its noa war for being mix'd a bit it's all to goa into one shop As sooin as owt to ait is mentioned th' childer's hungry in a minit even th' lass' at's been peraidin' abaat an' couldn't fashion to stand aside ov her brothers an' sisters coss they wor soa short o' manners draws a bit nearer th' mother's elbow Daan they sit like a owd hen an' her chickens an' dooant they put it aat o'th' seet It means nowt if th' mustard an' th' pickled onions have getten on th' apple pasty or potted mait an' presarved tairts squeezed all into one they're noan nasty nice an' then th' bottle's passed raand cold tea flavored wi rum an sweetened wol th' childer can hardly leave lawse when they've once getten hold An' wol they're enjoyin' thersen this way th' owd chap's blowin' his bacca an' tak's a pool ivery nah and then at a little bottle abaat th' size ov a prayer book 'at he hugs in his side pocket After this they mun have a sail i' one o'th' booats an' in they get tumellin' one over t'other an' bargain wi' th' chap for a gooid haar Th' owd chap pools his watch aat an mak's sure o'th' time when they start an' away they goa like a burd Isn't it grand says furst one an' then another But in a bit th' owd chap puts his pipe aat an' tak's another pool at th' little bottle an' his wife's face grows a deeal leeter coloured an' shoo axes him ha' long they've to goa yet Aat comes th' watch an' they're capt to find 'at they've nobbut been fifteen minutes an' th' owdest lass lains ovver th' side an' after coughin' a time or two begins to feed th' fish an' th' little uns come to lig ther heeads o' ther mother's knees but shoo tells 'em to sit o'th' seeat for shoo connot bide to be bothered then shoo tak's a fancy to luk ovver th' edge an' ther's another meal for th' fish Th' owd chap's detarmined to stand it aat soa he shuts his e'en an screws up his maath wol it's hardly as big as a thripny bit then his watch comes aat agean an' he sighs to find they've nobbut been one hauf ther time Th' chaps i'th' boat see ha' matters stand an' bring' em back as sooin as they con Aat they get an' th' brass is paid withaat a word but th' owd woman shakes her heead an' says Niver noa moor It's a dear doo Sixpence a piece an' all th' potted mait an' th' apple pasty wasted | A |
John Hartley
(1)
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