After a little judicious talk on the day’s sport, the Doctor suddenly began, “Now, farmer, you must do us a favour, and give us your famous old Gloucestershire song. I’ve been telling all our friends here about it, and they’re keen to hear it.”
“’Spose you means Gaarge Ridler?” said the farmer.
“Of course,” said the Doctor.
“Well, I don’t know as I’ve zung these score o’ months,” said the farmer, “but hows’mever, if you wants it, here goes.” So the farmer finished his brandy and water, cleared his throat, balanced himself on the hind legs of his chair, cast up his eyes and began—
Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns,
Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns.
“What’s he saying—what language?” whispered the tall scholar.
“Mad old party,” murmured the short scholar.
“Hush,” whispered the Doctor; “that’s the orthodox way to begin; don’t put him out.”