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"There they be! there they be! all the varmers, and young Squire Clayton wi' mun, on his grey hunter! O Lord! O Lord! and all their swords drawn!" I thought of the old story in Herodotus how the Scythian masters returned from war to the rebel slaves who had taken possession of their lands and wives, and brought them down on their knees with terror, at the mere sight of the old dreaded dog-whips.
The varmer he comes screeching out, To zave 'uns new brood mare; Zays I, "You and your stock may roast, Vor aught us poor chaps care." 'Coorus, boys, coorus! And the chorus burst out, 'Then here's a curse on varmers all As rob and grind the poor; To re'p the fruit of all their works In for evermoor-r-r-r.
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