A HOPELESS CASE.
A very Un-Virgilian Pastoral Eclogue.
Interlocutors—Ceres and a Northern Farmer, newest style.
["In several instances last week the prices for new wheat were quoted at 16s. to 19s. per quarter in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, and the general average for the whole country last week was actually only 27s. 7d. It is over two hundred years since anything like so low a price has been quoted for wheat in England."—Westminster Gazette.]
Farmer (throwing down newspaper).
Dubbut loook at the waäste! Foine feälds? A' dear! a' dear!
'Tisn't worth nowt a haäcre; 'tis worse than it wur laäst year!
Ceres (entering).
Good evening, Farmer, my friend! I think you will own this time
I have sent you a golden harvest. I never saw wheat more prime!
Farmer.
And who ma' yew beä, Marm? And what dost tha meän, Marm—yew?
I weänt say tha be a loiar, but tha say'st what's nawways true.
Ceres.
Why, I am the farmer's friend, the goddess of farms and fields.
At my look the furrows spring, and my laugh the harvest yields.
Farmer.
Then wheer' asta beän saw long, leäven me a-liggin' aloän?
Friend? Thoort nowt o' a friend, leävin' meä to groomble and groän.
Ceres.
Why, what is the matter now? You've a bumper harvest, men say,
The wheat and the barley show fair, and likewise the oats and the hay!
Farmer.
Thee be the goddess o' feälds? Oh, a prutty goddess tha beäst!
Seems to meä tha knaws nowt, and tha beänt na use, not the leäst.
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saäy the things that ya do!
Goddess? My owd lass Bess wur a better goddess than yew!
Sartin-sewer I be if 'tis theä and thet Clerk o' the Weather
Arranges the craps and things, ye're a pair o' toättlers together!
Ceres.
That is ungrateful, Farmer! Just glance at those golden sheaves!
Phœbus and I have done it, yet who in our love believes?
Farmer.
Luvv it ma beä, but I reckons tha'st boäth o' tha mooch to larn.
Whut good o' a full-sheäved feäld, whut good o' a full-choked barn,
If markets beänt no better, but woorse—as the chap saays here—
Than they have beän in Owd England fur well-neigh two oonderd year?
Ceres.
I am not the goddess of markets!
Farmer.
Naw, naw! Thou 'rt a useless jade.
Whut use o' taturs, and turmuts and wheat, if tha ain't gut trade?
Whoy, your weather hallus cooms o' the sort as we doänt desire;
If we want sun ya send water, and if we want water 'tis fire.
Then they Parlyment fellers fret us a-lettin' they furrineers in.
We take no koind o'care of ourssens, and tha furrineers win;
And if tha weäther be bad, whoy we hän't naw craps at äll.
And if tha weäther be fair, whoy the market proices fäll.
And tha calls thaself a goddess, and the British farmer's friend!
And we're goin' from woorse to woost, and a aäsk tha, wheer will it end?
Ceres (sadly).
Well, I've sent you a golden harvest, good friend, though your greeting's cold.
Farmer (furiously).
Wheer's the good o' a golden harvest if I canna change it for gold?
A HOPELESS CASE.
Ceres. "There, my Friend, I have given you a Golden Harvest this Year!"
Farmer. "It's very kind of you, Marm; but 'tain't much good if I can't get Gold for it!"