The Peasant.
[Scratching his head.]
Nay, nay,
I draw the line somewhere or other!
In Jesus' name, remember, pray,
At home I've children and a wife.
Brand.
He whom you mention had a mother.
The Peasant.
Ay, that was in the times of yore;—
Then marvels were of every day;
Such things don't happen any more.
Brand.
Go home. You travel in death's track.
You know not God, God knows not you.
The Peasant.
Hoo, you are stern!
The Son.
[Pulling him away.]
Come back! come back
The Peasant.
Ay, ay; but he must follow too!
Brand.
Must I?
The Peasant.
Ay, if I let you bide
Up here in this accursed weather,
And rumour told, what we can't hide,
That you and we set out together,
I'm haul'd some morning to the dock,—
