Greene Ferne Farm - Richard Jefferies

“I thenks it be a-most time to go whoam,” said Pistol-legs, rising with some difficulty. “Here, Dan’l!” to one of his numerous descendants. “Let I hould on by thee.”

It was abundantly evident that Pistol-legs was right; it was time to go home. Shortly afterwards the Squire returned again, and announced that the feast was over; when the assembly separated peacefully, after the wont of country folk, though for half an hour or more there came distant “Hurrays” and cheering as the groups went down the road.

About two o’clock in the morning, Jabez the shepherd, with his dog Job at his feet, was found astride of a stile in the meadows. He had stuck close to the barrel all day, and was roaring, at the top of a voice accustomed to shout across half a mile of down, the veracious ballad of “Gaarge Ridler’s Oven,” of noted memory:

“When I goes dead, as it med hap,
Why, bury me under the good ale-tap!
Wi’ voulded arms thur let me lie,
Cheek by jowl my dog and I!”