Eclogue.
John an’ Thomas.
THOMAS.
How b’ye, then, John, to-night; an’ how
Be times a-waggèn on w’ ye now?
I can’t help slackenèn my peäce
When I do come along your pleäce,
To zee what crops your bit o’ groun’
Do bear ye all the zummer roun’.
’Tis true you don’t get fruit nor blooth,
’Ithin the glassèn houses’ lewth;
But if a man can rear a crop
Where win’ do blow an’ raïn can drop,
Do seem to come, below your hand,
As fine as any in the land.
JOHN.
Well, there, the geärden stuff an’ flow’rs
Don’t leäve me many idle hours;
But still, though I mid plant or zow,
’Tis Woone above do meäke it grow.
THOMAS.
Aye, aye, that’s true, but still your strip
O’ groun’ do show good workmanship:
You’ve onions there nine inches round,
An’ turmits that would waïgh a pound;
An’ cabbage wi’ its hard white head,
An’ teäties in their dousty bed,
An’ carrots big an’ straight enough
Vor any show o’ geärden stuff;
An’ trees ov apples, red-skinn’d balls,
An’ purple plums upon the walls,
