The women screamed like blazes, as the blazing hayrick burned,
The sucking pigs were in a crack, all into crackling turned;
Grilled chickens clog the hencoop, roasted ducklings choke the
gutter,
And turkeys round the poultry yard on devilled pinions flutter.
Two feet deep in buttermilk the stoker's two feet lie,
The cook before she bakes it finds a finger in the pie;
The labourers for their lost legs are looking round the farm,
They couldn't lend a hand because they had not got an arm.
Oldstyle all soot, from head to foot, looked like a big black
sheep,
Newstyle was thrown upon his own experimental heap;
"That weather-glass," said Oldstyle, "canna be in proper fettle,
Or it might as well a tow'd us there was thunder in the kettle."
"Steam is so expansive." "Aye," said Oldstyle, "so I see.
So expensive, as you call it, that it winna do for me;
According to my notion, that's a beast that canna pay,
Who champs up for his morning feed a hundred ton of hay."
Then to himself, said Oldstyle, as he homewards quickly went,
"I'll tak' no farm where doctors' bills be heavier than the rent;
I've never in hot water been, steam shanna speed my plough,
I'd liefer thrash my corn out by the sweat of my own brow.
Pages:
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312