The hunter's at the kennel wi' his pups.
What's his name? He's been here now a sennight.
Soloman—Macias.
Andrew— Macias; that's a good name.
Soloman— (Giving Andrew a light.)
It's a lean name.
Andrew— Lean name? Fat, man, fat.
An it was lean we'd have to cast our skins,
As the snakes do, and sleep at breakfast time.
I tell you, Soloman, there a hunter for you.
He's for a beast, he fronts it i' the dark,
Blazing its pretty orbs wi' his big torch.
His eye's a rook's eye and his spear as true
As the bolt o' the buskined hussy what you say
Drops from the moon i' the dead o' night and hunts
Naked i' the woods. She's a—I'm a monk, though.
An you could see him coming through the copse,
Shuffling the dews away, zooks, you would say
The burnt faced fellows of Libya were for sure
Making a revel feast for the big god.
The game! the game! Sweet, tender prickets,
Stags and chamois calves, pheasants and geese,
Turtles and loaches and toper horse-fish
Wi' fins as red as blood. God bless us, though.
An the Abbot finds the oratory dark,
There'll be thin food for sheep on Andrew's grave.
Water and bread.
(He starts toward the chapel, humming to himself.)
Soloman— What's the song, Andrew?
Andrew— Sh!
The Abbot hears me trill that heathen song,
I'll get no chick-weed. It's a foul song.
(He comes forward and looks round the corner of the dormitory, then returns to the window.)
A cricket chirped it from a chink i' the wall
As the old man dozed dreaming o' green fields,
Up there. (He sings.)
The grass is food for the ewe
And the ewe is food for man
And man is food for the green, green grass
And the grass for the ewe again.
The foul song makes goat's food of us all.
Old Andrew's shoots, gowan, and aigilops
For filthy goats to browse on. (He starts away.)
Sfoot, I'll fast
'Fore I'll be carried around in a goat's udder.