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<h2>The Fool</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What say? Tharp? Yis: Aaron Tharp lived theer! Not quite sharp? Not quite—I fear! T'wer very sad! Though theer wor summat—'tis hard to say— But he come to his end and went away; He'd a nice little place as his feyther made, All gone to pot, I be much afraid. Old Aaron built it in his day, A worthy feller true an' sound, Respected by the country round; To think as his name should be forgotten! If he'd known what a fool he had begotten! He toiled an' moiled into his grave To leave a lad what couldn't save! Noa note of grace, noa sense of cash! He lost his all be bein' rash! </div> <div class="stanza"> An' for what!— For what!— To play the fiddle! 'Hey diddle diddle!' To make up tunes in his empty head An' ruin his eyes wi' the books he read! He raumed an' babbled all day long [62]About the way to sing a song! Follered the lads at plough about To hear 'em sing would make him shout! He'd sit on the bar of the Ship at night: To catch the tunes was his delight, Or to play the fiddle about the town:— An' all the while his trade went down! That trade what poor old Aaron tended It's fell to nowt an' can't be mended Coz businesses is all the same You've simply got to play the game With all your soul an' all your heart Or else you'll soon be in the cart. </div> <div class="stanza"> He was encouraged by our parson! T'wer wrong of parson! It's very well for them to talk To sing an' play and idle, walk, But aren't they paid for doin' that? They mind their bread is buttered fat. Parsons is sensible you see, O'most as cute as lawyers be, Not quite—a course coz noa one could— But very nigh—just as they should. Parsons is sound at heart, I say, They never quarrels wi' their pay, Soa it wor wrong of Parson theer, Coz Aaron nobbut lacked a cheer. </div> <div class="stanza"> He made his tunes, he played about [63]An' none but Parson had a doubt What he was bound for—poor young lad! A course I'll own,—though he wor mad,— Them tunes he played, them songs he sung, They minded you of bein' young; They took me back, a boy, agen At work wi' Feyther down the Fen, When all the birds they uster sing At sunrise till the air would ring, And sheep and cows would stir about Wi' everything to make yer shout, Yes it wor strange what he could do, His fiddle seemed to mazzle you, The labourers would catch a song— An' they was catchy—all along; They sing 'em yet; an' Georgy Bell He plays 'em by the village well. </div> <div class="stanza"> But all the while, trade didn't mend Until at last ther' come the end. </div> <div class="stanza"> They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan, An' off he went away, aloan; Because he sung but couldn't save. I think his feyther in the grave Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep: That smash would waken any sleep! Young Aaron went— I dunno where— They say he's gone to Manchester, [64]An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke, Makes music for the city folk; Plays on his fiddle, time, agen Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen From shepherds or from waggon-boys Or men at plough,—or any noise: He made his tunes out of the air, From birds or beasts—he didn't care! An' Parson, says he'll make a name (Our Parson, what's the one to blame!) As if he ever could agen Find such a hoam as Martin Fen; As if he could, by fiddle fad, Get half the name his feyther had. </div> <div class="stanza"> Lost in some smoky town he plays An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days, Of all the things what makes life dear Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer; A dreamy good-for-nothing lad, Sure bound to lose all what he had. He might a-riz, an' come to be As high as you, or even me! An' bin well known the country round As comfortable, warm, an' sound. </div> <div class="stanza"> His name is known for many a mile, It raises far-an'-wide, a smile: While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'! A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp. </div> </div>   PRINTED AT THE HOLYWELL PRESS OXFORD </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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