Gi’ me the man that loves the Squire
With all his might and main;
And with the taxes and the rates
As never racks his brain.
Who loves the Parson and the Beak
As Heaven born’d and sent,
And revels in that blessed balm
A hongry sweet content.
Chorus.
Gie me the good Shaksperan man
As wants no other books,
But them as he no need to spell,
The ever runnin brooks:
As feeds the pigs and minds the flocks,
And rubs the orses down;
And like a regler lyal man,
Sticks up for Church and Crown.”
Chorus.
At the termination of this pastoral song there was such a hullabaloo of laughter, such a yelling, thumping, and, I grieve to say, swearing, that Mr. Bumpkin wondered what on earth was the occasion of it. At the Rent dinner at the Squire’s he had always sung it with great success; and the Squire himself had done him the honour to say it was the best song he had ever heard, while the Clergyman had assured him that the sentiments were so good that it ought to be played upon the organ when the people were coming out of church. And Farmer Grinddown, who was the largest gentleman farmer for miles around, had declared that if men would only act up to that it would be a happy country, and we should soon be able to defy America itself.
Mr. Bumpkin, hearing such shouts of laughter, thought perhaps he might have a patch of black on his face, and put his hand up to feel. Then he looked about him to see if his dress was disarranged; but finding nothing amiss, he candidly told them he “couldn’t zee what there wur to laugh at thic fashion.”
They all said it was a capital song, and wondered if he had any more of the same sort, and hoped he’d leave them a lock of his hair—and otherwise manifested tokens of enthusiastic approbation.
Mr. Bumpkin, however, could not quite see their
mirth in the same light, so he turned on his heel and, beckoning to Joe, left the room in high dudgeon, not to say disdain.
“Mind Joe—no truck wi un.”