Member Bio

I be just a country lad an’ farmer what they calls Oi Straw. Oi don’ ha’ me letturs or me figgurs so this ‘ere lad what does are ascribin’ me worrids.

Oi be frum littil farm what we calt Littil Farm, near littil village what we calt Littil Village. Don’ ask Oi where that be, Oi ent verra good at me gee-og-ree-fee, eyether. Well, an’ one day I was aplowin’ of me field when a sojer coom by an’ hies me.

“Hie!” sez ‘ee. “Have thy a draught w’ me, boyo!” “Oo,” sez Oi, Oi being that parched, “Thankee, Sergent!”

So, ‘ee hand me pint jar, an Oi drink pint jar, and I see sommat on bottom o’ pint jar, gleemin’ loike.

“Hoy!” sez Oi, “What’s this on bottom o’ pint jar, gleemin’ loike?” “Hoy!” sez ‘ee, “That be ther King’s shillin’, farmer lad! Yez took ther King’s

shillin’. Welcome to ther Guard, Sojer! Har, har, har!”

Oi waren’t verra pleased wif ‘at, sose Oi sez “But, Sergent, thy don’ wan’ o’ Oi, Oi not havin’ me letturs an’ figgurs, and Oi jus’ being simple farmer lad!” An’ ‘ee says, “Nue, you’re jus’ as bright a lad as we need, boyo!”

Oi were that ready to run into them woods what we calt Them Woods, Oi were, but as rite then ther ‘ole squad come out from behind tha privy an’ them standin right close, apolishin’ their big swoards and lookin’ at me loike, an’ sum o’ them being trolls and dorfs and such, there waren’t a mite to say, wer there? Not aloud, mate!

Sergent sez to Oi, sez ‘ee, “Don worra, lad, it be only a five year turn!”

Sose I lef ‘ me Littil Farm an me Mum. An’ since that we been all aboot, fightin an sooch. It seem loike more than five year by my reckonin’, but Cap’n sits me down in pub and explain ‘ow ’tis wif us goin’ aboot from place to place, and ‘ow it be winner in one o them places while it be soomer in t’other place, seems like a heap o’ years, but s’only a few month. Which that explains besides why me hair and beard has grown so long an gray. Oi dunno, Oi makes more sense ow’tit when Cap’n ‘splains at pub, don’ Oi?

Cap’n sez Oi got less’n one year lef’ o’ me service, sez ‘ee, and it’s natrul-loike fer tha last year t’ stretch on soo, sez ‘ee. Oi ‘ope me littil farm’s farin’ well, Oi ent heard from me Mum in long, long toime, Oi ent.

By Me Solemn Affey-Davey,
(Straw)