‘Perhaps you’d like an engagement in our line, young man, and your friend there, he seems a sporting gent too.—We could show him very pretty shooting.’
Tregarva answered by the first and last oath Lancelot ever heard from him, and turning to him, as the rascal sneaked off,—
‘That’s a poaching crimp from London, sir; tempting these poor boys to sin, and deceit, and drunkenness, and theft, and the hulks.’
‘I fancy I saw him somewhere the night of our row—you understand?’
‘So do I, sir, but there’s no use talking of it.’
Blackbird was by this time prevailed on to sing, and burst out as melodious as ever, while all heads were cocked on one side in delighted attention.
‘I zeed a vire o’ Monday night,
A vire both great and high;
But I wool not tell you where, my boys,
Nor wool not tell you why.
The varmer he comes screeching out,
To zave ’uns new brood mare;
Zays I, “You and your stock may roast,
Vor aught us poor chaps care.”
‘Coorus, boys, coorus!’
And the chorus burst out,—
‘Then here’s a curse on varmers all
As rob and grind the poor;
To re’p the fruit of all their works
In **** for evermoor-r-r-r.