_Farmer._
Naw, naw! Thou 'rt a useless jade.
Whut use o' taturs, and turmuts and wheat, if tha ain't gut trade?
Whoy, your weather hallus cooms o' the sort as we doänt desire;
If we want sun ya send water, and if we want water 'tis fire.
Then they Parlyment fellers fret us a-lettin' they furrineers in.
We take no koind o'care of ourssens, and tha furrineers win;
And if tha weäther be bad, whoy we hän't naw craps at äll.
And if tha weäther be fair, whoy the market proices fäll.
And tha calls thaself a goddess, and the British farmer's friend!
And we're goin' from woorse to woost, and a aäsk tha, wheer will it
end?
_Ceres (sadly)._
Well, I've sent you a golden harvest, good friend, though your
greeting's cold.
_Farmer (furiously)._
_Wheer's the good o' a golden harvest if I canna change it for gold?_
* * * * *
[Illustration: A HOPELESS CASE.
_Ceres._ "THERE, MY FRIEND, I HAVE GIVEN YOU A GOLDEN HARVEST THIS
YEAR!"
_Farmer._ "IT'S VERY KIND OF YOU, MARM; BUT 'TAIN'T MUCH GOOD IF I CAN'T
GET GOLD FOR IT!"]
* * * * *