“Them as has won or shared a first prize at any revel,” answered he, without looking round.
After a minute the chairman’s brother, who didn’t seem to have much scruple about these sports, jumped up on the stage, and blew an old French hunting-horn, till the young ones began to laugh; and then told the men not to be afraid to come up, for if they didn’t begin at once there wouldn’t be light to play out the ties.
At last there was a stir amongst the knot of Somersetshire men, who stood together at one corner of the stage; and one of them, stepping up, pitched on to it his stumpy black hat, and then climbed up after it himself, spoke a word to the umpires, and began handling the sticks, to choose one which balanced to his mind, while the umpires proclaimed, “An old gamester wanted, to play with John Bunn of Wedmore.”
“There he stands, you see,” said Master George, who was close by me, though I hadn’t seen him before, “the only remaining representative of the old challenger at tourneys ready to meet all comers. He ought to have a herald to spout out his challenge in verse. Why not?”
“I don’t know what he could say more than the umpire has, Sir,” said I.
“He might blow his own trumpet at any rate,” said he; “somehow thus;” and he repeated, after a false start or two,—
THE ZONG OF THE ZUMMERZETSHIRE OWLD GEAMSTER.
I.
“Cham[32] a Zummerzetshire mun
Coom her to hev a bit o’vun.