Had an old carrion bit that was sheer skin and bone; To have killed him for the curs would have been quite as well, But 'twas Tommy's opinion he'd die of himsel. Well! one Abey Muggins, a neighbouring cheat, Thought to diddle old Tommy would be a great treat; He'd a horse, too, 'twas worse than old Tommy's, you see, Fortnight afore that he'd thought proper to dee! Thinks Abey, th' old codger'll never smoke t' trick, I'll swop with him my poor dead horse for his quick, And if Tommy I nobbut can happen to trap, 'Twill be a fine feather in Aberram cap. So to Tommy he goes and to Tommy he pops: "Between my horse and thine, prithee, Tommy, what swops? What will give me to boot? for mines t' better horse still!" "Nought," says Tommy, "I'll swop even hands, an ye will." (_nobbut,_ only.) Abbey preached a long time about something to boot, Insisting that his was the liveliest brute; But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, Till Abey shook hands, and said, "Well Tommy, done." "O! Tommy," said Abey, "I'se sorry for thee, I thought thou'd a hadden more white in thy ee; Good luck's in thy bargain, for my horse is dead"-- "Hey," says Tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an it's flayed." So Tommy got t' better of t' bargain, a vast, And came off with a Yorkshireman's triumph at last; For though 'twixt dead horses there's not much to choose Yet Tommy was richer by the hide and four shoes. [Illustration: 0311] WIDDICOMBE FAIR |Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your grey mare, All along, down along, out along, lee; For I want for to go to Widdicombe fair, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all," Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. "And when shall I see again my grey mare?" All along, &c. "By Friday soon, or Saturday noon," Wi' Bill Brewer, &c. Then Friday came, and Saturday noon, All along, &c. But Tom Pearses old mare hath not trotted home, Wi' Bill Brewer, &c. So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill, All along, &c. And he see'd his old mare down a-making her will Wi' Bill Brewer, &c. So Tom Pearse's old mare, her took sick and died, All along, &c. And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried Wi' Bill Brewer, &c. And now that Tom Pearse's old grey mare is dead All along, &c. They all did agree that she should be buried Wi' Bill Brewer, &c. But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair, All along, &c. Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career Of Bill Brewer, &c. When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night, All along, &c. Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white, Wi' Bill Brewer, &c. And all the long night be heard skirling and groans, All along, down along, out along, lee; From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones, And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter