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Beginning somewhat softly, Hodge fires away with a gravity and emotion which do him infinite credit, each succeeding repetition of the word "stwuns" being rendered with ever-increasing pathos and emphasis, until, like the final burst of an orchestral prelude, with drums, trumpets, fiddles, etc, all going at the same time, are at length ushered in the opening lines of the ballad.
"A poor thing, but mine own." "Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns." T. HUGHES, Scouring of the White Horse. Magdalen Prescott stood on her own little terrace.
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