“Old Harry Trewin
Had no breeches to wear,
So he stole a ram’s skin
To make him a pair.
The skinny side out
And the woolly side in,
And thus he doth go—old Harry Trewin!”
“There’s a proper song for ’e!” said Bartley. “When you can turn a verse like that, you may call yourself a clever chap, John Beer.”
“The rhyme’s nought—’tis the tune,” retorted Beer. “The verse be very vulgar, and so’s the subject. You don’t understand these things, as how should a policeman? Take Widecombe Fair even. ’Tis the tune of thicky that folks like. Never was foolisher verses.”
A little figure crossed the inn yard, and Sim leapt up. “Obi” followed, carrying certain parcels that the footman had brought with him. Matthew Sweetland stared at the tall, retreating figure in its long strangely-cut coat.