What would you do wi’ a doughter—
Pray wi’ her, bensil her, flout her?—
Say, what would you do wi’ a daughter
That’s marra to Bonney hissen?
I prayed wi’ her first, of a Sunday,
When chapil was lowsin’ for t’ neet;
An’ I laid all her cockaloft marlocks
’Fore th’ Almighty’s mercy-seat.
When I looked for her tears o’ repentance,
I jaloused that I saw her laugh;
An’ she said that t’ Powers o’ Justice
Would 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,
Not one chunt’rin word did she say:
But she hoped that t’ blooid o’ t’ martyrs
Would 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’ lasses
I 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 daughter
That’s marra to Bonney hissen?