Myself.—What kind of a rent do you pay for your land?
Farmer.—O, rather a stiffish one.
Myself.—Two pound an acre?
Farmer.—Two pound an acre! I wish I paid no more.
Myself.—Well! I think that would be quite enough. In the time of the old monastery you might have had the land at two shillings an acre.
Farmer.—Might I? Then those couldn’t have been such bad times, after all.
Myself.—I beg your pardon! They were horrible times—times in which there were monks and friars and graven images, which people kissed and worshipped and sang pennillion to. Better pay three pounds an acre and live on crusts and water in the present enlightened days than pay two shillings an acre and sit down to beef and ale three times a day in the old superstitious times.
Farmer.—Well, I scarcely know what to say to that.
Myself.—What do you call that high hill on the other side of the river?
Farmer.—I call that hill Bunk Pen Bannedd.