Farmer.
Naw, naw! Thou 'rt a useless jade.
Whut use o' taturs, and turmuts and wheat, if tha ain't gut trade?
Whoy, your weather hallus cooms o' the sort as we doänt desire;
If we want sun ya send water, and if we want water 'tis fire.
Then they Parlyment fellers fret us a-lettin' they furrineers in.
We take no koind o'care of ourssens, and tha furrineers win;
And if tha weäther be bad, whoy we hän't naw craps at äll.
And if tha weäther be fair, whoy the market proices fäll.
And tha calls thaself a goddess, and the British farmer's friend!
And we're goin' from woorse to woost, and a aäsk tha, wheer will it end?
Ceres (sadly).
Well, I've sent you a golden harvest, good friend, though your greeting's cold.
Farmer (furiously).
Wheer's the good o' a golden harvest if I canna change it for gold?
A HOPELESS CASE.
Ceres. "There, my Friend, I have given you a Golden Harvest this Year!"
Farmer. "It's very kind of you, Marm; but 'tain't much good if I can't get Gold for it!"