"I'd rather be in prison
Than in this earthly dwellin',
Where nothin' is but it isn'—
An there ain't no means of tellin'!"
"—Which when, the night before he started, he comes to me an' says that he an' Mary 'ave made a match of it, an' would I mind keepin' an eye on 'er an' writin' regilar to say 'ow she was gettin' on, it fair knocked me out."
"You never told 'im?"
"I didn' like to. To start with 'e was always my fav'rite brother, an' I couldn' bear his startin' in low sperits an' South Africa such a distance off; beside which, I told mysel', the girl must surely know 'er own mind. So now you know," concluded Sam, "what I means by the nex' verse—"
"Stratford-on-Avon, Stratford-on-Avon—
My true love she is false;
I 'd rather not go to Stratford-on-Avon
If I could go anywheres else."
"But you promised to keep an eye on her."
"'Enery 'ears from me regilar," said Sam evasively.
"If you don't pay 'er no visits," Tilda insisted, "the more you write the more you must be tellin' lies; an' that's not fair to 'Enery."
Sam considered this for a while, and ended by drawing a folded scrap of paper from his trouser-pocket.
"I don't tell no more than can't be 'elped, missie. You just list'n to this."