"Yes," she said, "and so do I, but it doesn't do to say so to everybody nowadays."
R. C. L.
SPEED THE PLOUGH: A COUNTRY SONG.
As I was a-walking on Chilbolton Down I saw an old farmer there driving to town, A-jogging to market behind his old grey, So I jumped up beside him, and thus he did say:—
"My boy he be fightin', a fine strappin' lad, I gave he to England, the one boy I had; My boy he be fightin' out over the foam, An' here be I frettin' an' mopin' at home.
"But if there be times when 'tis just about hard Wi'out his strong arm in the field an' the yard, Why, I plucks my old heart up an' flicks the old grey, An' this is the tune that her heels seem to say:—
"'Oh the hoof an' the horn, the roots an' the corn, The flock in the fold an' the pigs in the pen, Rye-grass an' clover an' barns brimmin' over, They feed the King's horses an' feed the King's men!'
"Then I looks at my furrows to see the corn spring Like little green sword-blades all drawn for the King; An' 'tis 'Get up, old Bess, there be plenty to do For old chaps like me an' old horses like you.
"'My boy be in Flanders, he's young an' he's bold, But they will not have we, lass, for we be too old, So step it out lively an' kip up your heart, For you an' me, Bess, be a-doin' our part—