"And the old master came on his pony and smiled,
And unto the mowyers did say,
"Stick to it like bricks, it'll make two good ricks—
When it's made, lads—of capital hay.'
Then my feyther spoke up, and said, 'Master, I know
You're a very good master, indeed;
In fact, both myself and my Butty here say,
You're the best master ever we seed!
We don't mean to shirk it, but, master, look here,
We've worked like two Niggers all day,
So, master, God bless you, just stand us some beer,
And you shall have two ricks of good hay.'
"Then the master he gi'd the old pony a lick.
And he said, as he canter'd along,
'I'll stand you a gallon for each of the ricks!'
And he did, and he sent it 'um strong!
My heart, how they leather'd away at their job,
My feyther, poor mon, and old Joey,
And at night when the master came round on his cob,
They'd both got as drunk, lads, as Cloey.
I well recollect, I'd to help my dad whum,
And Griffis's wife helped her master,
'Twas the talk of the village and every one said,
That no bottles or scythes e'er went faster!"
Conscience is the soul's "safety-valve"—that attended to, all is well!
