But as a man would wish to die he died.
Now, though he will not ride with us again,
His merry spirit seems our comrade yet,
Freed from the power of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn—or to forget.
A LITERAL EPOCH.
That there rumpus i' the village laast Saturday night? Aye, it were summat o' a rumpus, begad! Lor! there aren't bin nothin' like it not since the time when they wuz a-gwain' to burn th' ould parson's effigy thirty-fower year ago (but it niver come off, because 'e up an' offered to contribute to the expenses 'isself, an' that kind o' took the wind out on't).
Ye see, Sir, there's just seven licensed 'ouses i' the village. Disgraceful? Aye, so 'tis, begad!—on'y seven licensed 'ouses—an' I do mind when 'twas pretty nigh one man one pub, as the sayin' is. Howsomever, to-day there's seven, and some goes to one and some goes to totherun.
Well, laast Friday night me an' Tom Figgures an' Bertie Mayo an' Peter Ledbetter an' a lot more on us what goes to Reuben Izod's at The Bell, we come in to 'ave our drink. And, mind you, pretty nigh all on us 'ad a-bin mouldin'-up taters all day, so's to get them finished afore the hay; so us could do wi' a drop. Aye, aye!