Clyst. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] Yure tongue du watter, don’t it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding out his mug] No zider, no poetry.  ‘Tis amazin’ sorrowful; Shakespeare over again.  “The boy stude on the burnin’ deck.”

Freman.  Yu and yer yap!

Clyst. Ah!  Yu wait a bit.  When I come back down t’lane again, Orphus ’e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the ponies, an’ a praaper old magpie, a-top o’ the hedge.  I zee somethin’ white in the beak o’ the fowl, so I giv’ a “Whisht,” an’ ‘e drops it smart, an’ off ‘e go.  I gets over bank an’ picks un up, and here’t be.

     [He holds out his mug.]

Burlacombe. [Tartly] Here, give ’im ’is cider.  Rade it yureself, ye young teasewings.

     [Clyst, having secured his cider, drinks it o$.  Holding up the
     paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his
     eye round, tantalizing.]

Clyst.  ‘Tes a pity I bain’t dressed in a white gown, an’ flowers in me ’air.

Freman.  Read it, or we’ll ‘aye yu out o’ this.

Clyst. Aw, don’t ’ee shake my nerve, now!

     [He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring
     voice.  Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines]

          God lighted the zun in ’eaven far. 
          Lighted the virefly an’ the star. 
          My ’eart ’E lighted not!

          God lighted the vields fur lambs to play,
          Lighted the bright strames, ’an the may. 
          My ’eart ’E lighted not!

          God lighted the mune, the Arab’s way,
          He lights to-morrer, an’ to-day. 
          My ’eart ’E ’ath vorgot!

     [When he has finished, there is silence.  Then Trustaford,
     scratching his head, speaks:]

TAUSTAFORD.  ‘Tes amazin’ funny stuff.

Freman. [Looking over Clyst’s shoulder] Be danged!  ’Tes the curate’s ‘andwritin’.  ‘Twas curate wi’ the ponies, after that.

Clyst. Fancy, now!  Aw, Will Freman, an’t yu bright!

Freman.  But ’e ’adn’t no bird on ’is ’ead.

Clyst. Ya-as, ’e ’ad.

Jarland. [In a dull, threatening voice] ’E ’ad my maid’s bird, this arternune.  ’Ead or no, and parson or no, I’ll gie ’im one for that.

Freman.  Ah!  And ‘e meddled wi’ my ’orses.

Trustaford.  I’m thinkin’ ’twas an old cuckoo bird ’e ’ad on ’is ’ead.  Haw, haw!

Godleigh.  “His ’eart She ’ath Vorgot!”

Freman.  ‘E’s a fine one to be tachin’ our maids convirmation.

Godleigh.  Would ye ‘ave it the old Rector then?  Wi’ ’is gouty shoe? 
Rackon the maids wid rather ’twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe?

Burlacombe. [Abruptly] Curate’s a gude man.