University of Virginia Library

And they talked of the croft, and they talked of the garden,
And they talked of her son, that was only herdin'
Yet, she said; but she hoped he'd soon
Have a job at the mines, and then he'd be do'n'—
At an engine, perhaps, but hard to tell,
And the cows was shuitin' him very well,
And away on the mountains mostly he was,
Herdin' for Clague's of the Ballacross,
And only home at odds of time,
Just that Clague would take and try'm—
And a child, you know, and couldn' expec',
And rather weak in his interlec'.
But not so bad. “But, Harry Creer,
How is it there's some not far from here
That's got pluck and wit, and all the rest,
And handsome chaps, and a match for the best,
And still they don't see it? Plenty of sanse
And everything . . . and don't see their chance,
Don't see it . . . but there's some that does,
Sees it plain does some of us.”
And then she set upon him, and—Who
Was this Jack Pentreath? and Nessy Brew!
Bless her sowl then! was he blind?
Nessy at the Ballaquine!
Nessy . . . cravin' for him! Jack?
Nonsense! nonsense! just a pack
Of stuff and nonsense, a trick, a dodge
To get to be with Harry—fudge!
Make a fool of him? No, she wudn',
But worshippin' the ground he stood on.