Bill. Ain't he her natural enemy, then? Ain't it yer father as bumps yer 'ed, an' cusses ye, an' lets ye see him eat? Afore he gets our Mattie, I'll bite!
Tho. Poor lad! poor lad! Dunnot say that! Her feyther's th' best freen' hoo's getten. Th' moor's th' pity, for it's not mich he can do for her. But he would dee for her—he would.
Boys (all together). Go along, Daddy-devil! Pick yer own bones, an'
ha' done.
Bag-raker!
Skin-cat!
Bag o' nails!
Scull-an'-cross-bones!
Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn't say his prayers—
Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs.
Go along! Go to hell!
We'll skin you.
Melt ye down for taller, we will.
Only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'!
They throw things at him. He sits down on the door-step, and covers
his head with his arms. Enter COL. G. Boys run off.
Tho. Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie!
Col. G. Poor old fellow! Are you hurt?
Tho. Eh! yo be a followin' ov mo too!
Col. G. What are you doing here?
Tho. What am aw doin' yere! Thee knows well enough what aw're a doin' yere. It 're o' thy fau't, mon.
Col. G. Why, you've got a blow! Your head is cut! Poor old fellow!
Tho. Never yo mind mo yed.