"Give it 'em hot," cried a third. "Tell 'em plain we mean business. I'm sick o' letter writin'. They laugh at our letters." "Let them laugh," said George; "they'll laugh at wrong side o' their mouths afore we'n done wi' them. And now, lads, enough o' business. Th' landlord 'll be thinking we're poor customers. Let's have some ale and drive dull care away. A song, boys; who'll sing us a song?" "That will I, George, but I mun drink first. My belly's beginnin' to think ahn cut mi throat." A brother had left the room, and now appeared with an immense jug of ale, and tots were handed round. Cutty pipes were produced and coarse tobacco. Who paid the shot I do not know. But I have heard tell that some masters who were threatened paid quit money, and others even gave money that their neighbours' mills might be visited. But this I know not of a certainty, and only set it down as a thing that was said. This I know, there was no lack of ale among the lads, and money, too, came from somewhere. "Now for your song, Soldier," said George, and the men settled themselves for a spree and a fuddle. The croppers were ever a free lot given to roystering and cock fighting and bull baiting and other vanities. And thus sang Soldier Jack, and all that knew the song joined lustily in the chorus, for that wild moor there was no fear of intruders, and our host had not love enough for the justices to set them on good customers. "Come cropper lads of high renown, Who love to drink good ale that's brown, And strike each haughty tyrant down, With hatchet, pike, and gun! Oh, the cropper lads for me, The gallant lads for me, Who with lusty stroke, The shear frames broke, The cropper lads for me! What though the specials still advance, And soldiers rightly round us prance, The cropper lads still lead the dance, With hatchet, pike, and gun! Oh, the cropper lads for me, The gallant lads for me, Tho with lusty stroke The shear frames broke, The cropper lads for me! And night by night when all is still And the moon is hid behind the hill, We forward march to do our will With hatchet, pike, and gun! Oh, the cropper lads for me, The gallant lads for me, Who with lusty stroke The shear frames broke, The cropper lads for me! Great Enoch still shall lead the van. Stop him who dare! Stop him who can! Press forward every gallant man With hatchet, pike, and gun! Oh, the cropper lads for me, The gallant lads for me, Who with lusty stroke The shear frames broke, The cropper lads for me!"