Rarely the shots of the flock turn lowpy-dyke;
Likelier the tops have the spunk to run ramrace;
And I think no worse ...
Eliza:
Her father turned her out,
’Twas whispered; and he’s never named her, since:
And no one’s heard a word. I couldn’t thole
The lass. She’d big cow-eyes: there’s little good
In that sort. Jim’s well shot of her; he’ll not
Hear tell of her: that sort can always find
Another man to fool: they don’t come back:
Past’s past, with them.
Ezra:
I liked ...
Eliza:
Ay, you’re Jim’s dad.
But now he’s settling down, happen I’ll see
Bairn’s bairns at Krindlesyke, before I die.
Six sons—and only the youngest of the bunch
Left in the old home to do his parents credit.
Ezra:
Queer, all went wild, your sons, like collies bitten
With a taste for mutton bleeding-hot. Cold lead
Cures dogs of that kidney, peppering them one fine night
From a chink in a stell; but, when they’re two-legged curs,
They’ve a longer run; and, in the end, the gallows
Don’t noose them, kicking and squealing like snarled rabbits,
Dead-certain, as ’twould do in the good old days.
Eliza: