The Humourous Story of Farmer Bumpkin's Lawsuit Part 30

"Then we'll go to Bournemouth," cried I, "for I understand it's a very dreamy place."

"But I should like to know what becomes of this action of Mr. b.u.mpkin, and how all his people get on? You may depend upon it that Sergeant will enlist those other men."

"I do not know," I remarked, "what is in the future."

"But surely you know what you intend. You can make your characters do anything."

"Indeed not," I said. "They will have their own way whether I write their history or any one else."

"That Sergeant Goodtale will have every one of them, my dear; you mark my words. He's the most artful man I ever heard of."

Of course I could offer no contradiction to this statement as I was not in the secrets of the future. How the matter will work out depends upon a variety of circ.u.mstances over which I have not the least control. For instance, if Bill were to take the shilling, I believe d.i.c.k would follow: and if the Sergeant were to sing a good song he might catch the rest.

But who can tell?

CHAPTER XXI.

Joe electrifies the company and surprises the reader.

"Suppose we have another song," said Sergeant Goodtale.

"And spoase we has some moore o' that there stuff," answered Joe.

"Aye," said Harry, "we will too. I'll spend my shilling like a man."

Saying which he rang the bell and ordered a gla.s.s for himself and one for Joe.

"Now, then," said the latter, "I can't sing, but I'll gie thee summut as I larned."

"Hooray!" said Harry, "summut as he larned!"

"Bravo!" said the Boardman, "summut as he larned?"

"Here's at un," said Joe.

And then with a mighty provincialism he repeated without a break:-

DR. BRIMSTONE'S SERMON, AS PUT INTO VERSE BY GAFFER DITCHER.

I bin to Church, I ha', my boy, And now conwarted be; The last time I wur ever there War eighteen farty-three!

And 'ow I knows it is as this, I didn't goo to pray, Nor 'ear the Word, but went becorse It wur my weddin day!

Zounds! wot a blessed sarmon twur I 'eeard the Sabbath morn; 'Ow I a woful sinner wur Or ever I wur born.

You sees them wilful igorant pigs In mud a wollorin; Well, like them pigs, but ten times wus, We wollers in our sin.

We're coated o'er wi' sinful mud,- A dreadful sight we be; And yet we doant despise ourselves- For why?-We doant zee!

I thinks I had yer there, my boy, For all your sn.i.g.g.e.rin' jeers; Thee're in t' mud, I tell 'ee, lad, Rightoover 'ed an' ears.

Zounds! what a orful thing it be That love should blind us so!

Why, them there bloomin rosy cheeks Be ony masks o' woe!

The reddest on 'em thee could kiss Aint 'ardly wuth the pains; At best it's but the husk o' bliss, It's nuther wuts nor banes.

There aint a pleasure you can name, From coourtin down to skittles, But wot there's mischief in the same, Like pisen in your wittles.

The Reverend Brimstone says, "Beloved, Be allays meek an umble; A saint should never ax for moor, An never larn to grumble."

We ain't to tork o' polleticks An' things as don't consarn us, And wot we wornts to know o' lor The madgistret will larn us.

We ain't to drink wi' Methodists, No, not a friendly soop; We ain't to tork o' genteel folks Onless to praise un oop.

We ain't to 'ear a blessed word Agin our betters said; We're got to lay the b.u.t.ter thick Becorse they're sich 'igh bred!

We got to say "Ha! look at he!

A gemman tooth and nail!"

You morn't say, "What a ha.r.s.e he'd be If he'd a got a tail!"

For why? becorse these monied gents Ha' got sich birth an' breedin'; An' down we got to 'old our 'eads, Like cattle, when they're feedin'.

The parson put it kindly like- He sed, says he, as 'ow We're bean't so good as them there grubs We turns up wi' the plow.

There's nowt more wretcheder an we, Or worthier an the rich, I praises 'em for bein' born, An' 'eaven for makin' sich.

So wile we be, I daily stares That earthquakes doan't fall, An' swaller up this unconwinced Owdashus earthly ball!

An' wen I thinks of all our sins- Lay down, says I, my boys, We're fittin' only for manoor, So don't let's make a noise.

Let's spred us out upon the ground An' make the turmuts grow, It's all we're good for in this world O' wickedness an' woe!

And yet we're 'llow'd to brethe the air The same as gents from town; And 'llow'd to black their 'appy boots, And rub their 'orses down!

To think o' blessins sich as these, Is like ongrateful l.u.s.t; It stuffs us oop wi' worldly pride, As if our 'arts would bust!

But no, we're 'umble got to be, Though privileged so 'igh: Why doan't we feed on gra.s.s or grains, Or leastways 'umbly die!

We got to keep our wicked tongue From disrespeckful speakin', We han't a got to eat too much, Nor yet goo pleasure seekin'.

Nor kitch a rabbit or a aire, Nor call the Bobby names, Nor stand about, but goo to church, And play no idle games:

To love paroshial orficers, The squire, and all that's his, And never goo wi' idle chaps As wants their wages riz.