And when I does discourse of things
Most holy, to their tribe;
What does they do?—they mocks at me,
And makes my harp a gibe.
'Tis not what I calls pretty, Miss Ellinor."
"Certainly not, Peter; I wonder, with your talents for verse, you never indulge in a little satire against such perverse taste."
"Satire! what's that? Oh, I knows; what they writes in elections. Why, Miss, mayhap—" here Peter paused, and winked significantly—"but the Corporal's a passionate man, you knows: but I could so sting him—Aha! we'll see, we'll see.—Do you know, your honour," here Peter altered his air to one of serious importance, as if about to impart a most sagacious conjecture, "I thinks there be one reason why the Corporal has not written to me."
"And what's that, Peter?"
"Cause, your honour, he's ashamed of his writing: I fancy as how his spelling is no better than it should be—but mum's the word. You sees, your honour, the Corporal's got a tarn for
