To talk of deprivations,
When the pheasants roost snug.
In Sir Harry’s new plantations.
“It is about Sir Henry Withers!” cried my brothers; and they were running off to hear more, when my mother called them back and bade them walk quietly beside her, and wait till they got home, to hear the rest of this beautiful song. We were favoured with another verse, however, when the ballad-man saw that we were fairly within hearing. It ran thus:
Let your babes cry with cold,
For the turf it is sold,
And the cows are all gone.—Why, you blockhead!
Fire and food are but trash,
So they’re now turned to cash,
And they dangle in Malton’s big pocket.