  Ock Gurney and old Pete were there Ock Gurney and old Pete were there, Riding their bonny cobs and swearing. Ock's wife had giv'n them both a fairing, A horse-rosette, red, white and blue. Their cheeks were brown as any brew, And every comer to the meet Be you a going to a wedding?" "Why, noa," they said, "we'm going a bedding; Now ben't us, uncle, ben't us, Ock?" Pete Gurney was a lusty cock Turned sixty-three, but bright and hale, A dairy-farmer in the vale, Much like a robin in the face, Much character in little space, With little eyes like burning coal. His mouth was like a slit or hole In leather that was seamed and lined. He had the russet-apple mind That betters as the weather worsen. He was a manly English person, Kind to the core, brave, merry, true; That former Parson joined with Squire In putting down the Playing Quire, In church, and putting organ in. "Ah, boys, that was a pious din That Quire was; a pious praise The noise was that we used to raise; I and my serpent, George with his'n, On Easter Day in He is Risen, Or blessed Christmas in Venite; And how the trombone came in mighty, In Alleluias from the heart. Pious, for each man played his part, Not like 'tis now." Thus he, still sore For changes forty years before, When all (that could) in time and tune, He was a bachelor, from choice. He and his nephew farmed the Boyce Prime pasture land for thirty cows. Ock's wife, Selina Jane, kept house, And jolly were the three together. Ock had a face like summer weather, A broad red sun, split by a smile. He mopped his forehead all the while, And said "By damn," and "Ben't us, Unk?" His eyes were close and deeply sunk. He cursed his hunter like a lover, "Now blast your soul, my dear, give over. Woa, now, my pretty, damn your eyes." Like Pete he was of middle size, Dean-oak-like, stuggy, strong in shoulder, He had a back for pitching hay. His singing voice was like a bay. In talk he had a sideways spit, Each minute, to refresh his wit. He cracked Brazil nuts with his teeth. He challenged Cobbett of the Heath (Weight-lifting champion) once, but lost. Hunting was what he loved the most, Next to his wife and Uncle Pete. With beer to drink and cheese to eat, And rain in May to fill the grasses, This life was not a dream that passes To Ock, but like the summer flower. |
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