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Updated: May 24, 2025
Then to his airy hut, at eve, retires, Clasps to his open breast his buxom spouse, Basks in his faggot's blaze, his passions fires, And strait supine to rest unbroken bows. On his smooth forehead, Time's old annual score, Tho' left to furrow, yet disdains to lie; He bids weak sorrow tantalize no more, And puts the cup of care contemptuous by.
Now I could not, for the heart's blood of me, pick out or discover what parentage, alliance, affinity, or consanguinity was between them, with reference to our custom; only they told us that she was faggot's tripe. I reckon, said Carpalin, she hath gutted his oyster.
Then to the vale his cautious step he prest, For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen, Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest, Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen, On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest. Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!
"For why," continued old Joe, "did the smothered rag of a chap wait for us to come right abreast afore firing?" "Ah! that's it, ye see," exclaimed Bob Robins. "There ye've hit it, Mr. Westlake." "The little faggot's game," old Joe went on, "is as clear as mud in a wineglass. He fires with blank cartridge; like as he'd say 'What'll you do? What did he want?
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