But when I hev none, O then I pass by;
’Tis poverty pearts good company.
When I gwoes dead, as it may hap,
My grave shall be under the good yeal-tap,
Wi’ vaulded earmes ther’ wool I lie,
Cheek by jowl my dog and I.
Just as the farmer was finishing the song, Master George, with Joe and one or two more behind him, came in. He took up the last verse, and rolled it out as he came up towards our table, and a lot of the rest joined in with him; even the over-worked Peter, I could see stopping for a moment to shout that he would be buried under the tap; I dare say he meant it, only I think he would like it to be always running.
Master George knew most of the people, and made us all merrier even than we were before; and in the next half-hour or so, for which time we stayed in the booth, I should think there must have been a dozen more songs sung. However, I shall only give the one which seemed to be the greatest favourite, for I find that this chapter is running very long. This song was sung by a queer little man, with a twisted face, and a lurcher dog between his knees, who I believe was an earth stopper. He called it
BUTTERMILK JACK.
Ther wur an owld ’oman as had but one son,