 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
READY-MONEY JACK.
This song I dare both syng and say,
It keepeth men from grievous stryfe
When every man for hymself shall pay.
As I ryde in ryche array
For gold and sylver men wyll me floryshe;
By thys matter I dare well saye,
Ever gramercy myne owne purse.
Book of Hunting.
On the skirts of the neighbouring village
there lives a kind of small potentate,
who, for aught I know, is a representative
of one of the most ancient legitimate
lines of the present day; for the empire
over which he reigns has belonged to
his family time out of mind. His territories
comprise a considerable number of good
fat acres; and his seat of power is in an
old farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested,
the stout oaken chair of his
ancestors. The personage to whom I
allude is a sturdy old yeoman of the name
of John Tibbets, or rather Ready-Money
Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout
the neighbourhood.
The first place where he attracted my
attention was in the churchyard on Sunday;
where he sat on a tombstone after
the service, wi