Why surely they’re Roman charms,
Your British creed to shake.
Ant.—Cease prattler cease! Why should they not be the Casques, arms, or Bosses of British Chieftains in Roman service? No golden filagree work nor carved ivory; No amethystine Beads, nor Crystal Balls, no Coins, no Medals, no well-formed urns, nor colour’d stones from Rome will here be found; but Tin, Glass, or Amber Beads, the Tusks of Boars, or unbaked Urns of rudely shape with limpet shells will denote ’tis a British Barrow.
1st B. D. continues Digging, and comes to a Cist, and sings
This Cist of Chalk just like a grave
For such a guest is meet,
As if asleep here rests the brave,
Below the turf three feet.
Ant.—How independent the knave is! How long hast thou been a Barrow Digger?
1st B. D.—Of all the Ages of the World I came not to’t in that Age when the whole Earth was in a state of Fusion.