THOMAS.
O no! at Miëlmas his time is up,
An’ thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup,
A-fearèn that he’d get a bit o’ bread,
’V a-been an’ took his farm here over’s head.
ROBERT.
How come the Squire to treat your meäster zoo?
THOMAS.
Why, he an’ meäster had a word or two.
ROBERT.
Is Farmer Tup a-gwaïn to leave his farm?
He han’t a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm.
Poor over-reachèn man! why to be sure
He don’t want all the farms in parish, do er?
THOMAS.
Why ees, all ever he can come across,
Last year, you know, he got away the eäcre
Or two o’ ground a-rented by the beäker,
An’ what the butcher had to keep his hoss;
An’ vo’k do beänhan’ now, that meäster’s lot
Will be a-drowd along wi’ what he got.
ROBERT.
That’s it. In theäse here pleäce there used to be
Eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together,
An’ eight farm-housen. Now how many be there?
Why after this, you know there’ll be but dree.
THOMAS.
An’ now they don’t imploy so many men
Upon the land as work’d upon it then,
Vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it.
The lan’lord, to be sure, is into pocket;
Vor half the housen beën down, ’tis clear,
Don’t cost so much to keep em up, a-near.
