"Sure sir, yes sir—od's my life, I ought to be—I wrote 'em!"
"Then let's hear 'em and judge. But look'ee, Ben, if they ain't what they are they won't do—not if you were ten thousand Benjamen!"
Sir Benjamin stared, rubbed his chin, shook his head, sighed and read:
"Venus hath left her Grecian isles
With all her charms and witching wiles
And now all rustic hearts beguiles
In bowery Westerham!
"Ye tender herds, ye listening deer
Forget your food, forget your fear
Our glorious Betty reigneth here
In happy Westerham!
"Ye little lambs that on the green
In gambols innocent are seen
In gleeful chorus hail your queen
Sweet Bet of Westerham!
"Ye feathered——"
"Stop!" exclaimed Alvaston. "Your lambs'll never do, Ben!"
"Od sir, I say egad, why not?"
"Because lambs don't hail 'n' if they could hail their hail would be a 'baa' and being a baa Bet would ha' t' be a sheep t' understand 'em which Gad forbid, Ben! An' the bottle's with——"