EZRA: And I was gay when I was young--as brisk As a yearling tup with the ewes, till I’d the pains, Like red-hot iron, clamping back and thighs. My heart’s a younker’s still; but even love Gives in, at last, to rheumatics and lumbago. Now, I’m no better than an old bell-wether, A broken-winded, hirpling tattyjack That can do nothing but baa and baa and baa. I’d just to whistle for a wench at Jim’s age: And Jim’s ... ELIZA: His father’s son. EZRA: He’s never had My spirit. No woman’s ever bested me. For all his bluster, he’s a gaumless nowt, With neither guts nor gall. He just butts blindly-- A woolly-witted ram, bashing his horns, And spattering its silly brains out on a rock: No backbone--any trollop could twiddle him Round her little finger: just the sort a doxy, Or a drop too much, sets dancing, heels in air: He’s got the gallows’ brand. But none of your sons Has a head for whisky or wenches; and not one Has half my spunk, my relish. I’d not trust Their judgment of a ewe, let alone a woman: But I could size a wench up, at a glance; And Judith ... ELIZA: Ay: but Krindlesyke would be A muckheap-lie-on, with that cloffy slut For mistress. But she flitted one fine night. EZRA: Rarely the shots of the flock turn lowpy-dyke; Likelier the tops have the spunk to run ramrace; And I think no worse ... ELIZA: Her father turned her out, ’Twas whispered; and he’s never named her, since: And no one’s heard a word. I couldn’t thole The lass. She’d big cow-eyes: there’s little good In that sort. Jim’s well shot of her; he’ll not Hear tell of her: that sort can always find Another man to fool: they don’t come back: Past’s past, with them. EZRA: I liked ... ELIZA: Ay, you’re Jim’s dad. But now he’s settling down, happen I’ll see Bairn’s bairns at Krindlesyke, before I die. Six sons--and only the youngest of the bunch Left in the old home to do his parents credit. EZRA: Queer, all went wild, your sons, like collies bitten With a taste for mutton bleeding-hot. Cold lead Cures dogs of that kidney, peppering them one fine night From a chink in a stell; but, when they’re two-legged curs, They’ve a longer run; and, in the end, the gallows Don’t noose them, kicking and squealing like snarled rabbits, Dead-certain, as ’twould do in the good old days. ELIZA: You crack your gallows-jokes on your own sons-- And each the spit of the father that drove them wild, With cockering them and cursing them; one moment, Fooling them to their bent, the moment after, Flogging them senseless, till their little bodies Were one blue bruise.