“Why, maister, he knows my sister.”
“Damn thee sister, Joe; it be a lie.”
“Be it? here’s some o’ the bacca he brought up from Okleton, I tell ee.”
“I tell thee, have nowt to do wi un; we shall be on t’morrer, we be tenth in the list.”
“Ay,” said Joe, “we bin igher in list un thic, we bin as near as eight; I shall be mighty glad when it be over.”
“An get back to pigs, aye, Joe?”
“Aye, maister.”
“Nothin like oame, Joe, be there?” and Mr. Bumpkin turned away.
“No,” said Joe; “no, maister, if so be” (and this was spoken to himself) “if so be you got a oame.”
Then I saw that Joe rejoined his companions, amongst whom a conversation was going on as to the merits of the song. Some said one thing and some another, but all condemned it as a regular toading to the Parson and the Squire: and as for the Beak, how any man could praise him whose only duty was to punish the common people, no one could see. The company were getting very comfortable. The Sergeant had called for another glass of that delectable grog whose very perfume seemed to inspire everyone with goodfellowship, and they all appeared to enjoy the Sergeant’s liquor without tasting it.