Summer: Eclogue. The Best Man in the Vield
Sam and Bob.
SAM.
That’s slowish work, Bob. What’st a-been about?
Thy pooken don’t goo on not over sprack.
Why I’ve a-pook’d my weaele, lo’k zee, clear out,
An’ here I be ageaen a-turnen back.
BOB.
I’ll work wi’ thee then, Sammy, any day,
At any work dost like to teaeke me at,
Vor any money thou dost like to lay.
Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o’ that?
My weaele is nearly twice so big as thine,
Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin’.
SAM.
Ah! hang thee, Bob! don’t tell sich whoppen lies.
_My_ weaele’s the biggest, if do come to size.
’Tis jist the seaeme whatever bist about;
Why, when dost goo a-tedden grass, you sloth,
Another hand’s a-fwo’c’d to teaeke thy zwath,
An’ ted a half way back to help thee out;
An’ then a-reaeken rollers, bist so slack,
Dost keep the very bwoys an’ women back.
An’ if dost think that thou canst challenge I
At any thing,—then, Bob, we’ll teaeke a pick a-piece,
An’ woonce theaese zummer, goo an’ try
To meaeke a rick a-piece.
A rick o’ thine wull look a little funny,
When thou’st a-done en, I’ll bet any money.
BOB.
You noggerhead! last year thou meaed’st a rick,
An’ then we had to trig en wi’ a stick.
An’ what did John that tipp’d en zay? Why zaid
He stood a-top o’en all the while in dread,
A-thinken that avore he should a-done en
He’d tumble over slap wi’ him upon en.
SAM.
You yoppen dog! I warnt I meaede my rick
So well’s thou meaed’st thy lwoad o’ hay last week.
They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en,
An’ then they vound 'twer best to have en boun’,
Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl’d down;
An’ after that I zeed en all but vallen,
An’ trigg’d en up wi’ woone o’m’s pitchen pick,
To zee if I could meaeke en ride to rick;
An’ when they had the dumpy heap unboun’,
He vell to pieces flat upon the groun’.
BOB.
Do shut thy lyen chops! What dosten mind
Thy pitchen to me out in Gully-plot,
A-meaeken o’ me wait (wast zoo behind)
A half an hour vor ev’ry pitch I got?
An’ how didst groun’ thy pick? an’ how didst quirk
To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work
To rise a pitch that wer about so big
‘S a goodish crow’s nest, or a wold man’s wig!
Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller:
Zome o’ the women vo’k will beaet thee hollor.
SAM.
You snub-nos’d flopperchops! I pitch’d so quick,
That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job
To teaeke in all the pitches off my pick;
An’ dissen zee me groun’ en, nother, Bob.
An’ thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I?
Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try.
We’ll goo, if thou dost like, an’ jist zee which
Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.
BOB.
There, Sam, do meaeke me zick to hear thy braggen!
Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.
SAM.
You grinnen fool! why I’d zet thee a-blowen,
If thou wast wi’ me vor a day a-mowen.
I’d wear my cwoat, an’ thou midst pull thy rags off,
An’ then in half a zwath I’d mow thy lags off.
BOB.
Thee mow wi’ me! Why coossen keep up wi’ me:
Why bissen fit to goo a-vield to skimmy,
Or mow down docks an’ thistles! Why I’ll bet
A shillen, Samel, that thou cassen whet.
SAM.
Now don’t thee zay much mwore than what’st a-zaid,
Or else I’ll knock thee down, heels over head.
BOB.
Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi’e
A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.
SAM.
Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.
BOB.
Come on, then, Samel; jist let’s have woone bout.
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