Ding—­ding-a-ding!  Ding—­ding-a-ding! 
      The church bells they du ring,
  Ding—­ding-a-ding!  Ding—­ding-a-ding! 
      An’ seems they bells du zing: 
  “O merry be!  O merry be! 
      The work it all be done,
  Zee, peas and brocoli du graw
      Tremenjus in the zun;
  An’ hot it is, an’ calm it is,
      Bees buzz an’ cattle doze;
  Zo, laze about, an’ talk about,
      All in your Zunday clo’s.”
  Ding—­ding-a-ding!  Ding—­ding-a-ding_!

  Ding—­ding-a-ding!  Ding—­ding-a-ding! 
      The church bells merry ring,
  Ding—­ding-a-ding!  Ding—­ding-a-ding! 
      An,’ dang it! doan’t they zing?—­
  “O rest awhile!  O rest awhile! 
      Vor ‘tis amazin’ sweet
  To watch the white-heart cabbages
      All bustin’ in the heat;
  Zo, zit about, an’ stand about,
      Beside ov Early Rose,
  An’ puff a pipe, an’ think ov things,
      All in your Zunday clo’s.”
  Ding—­ding-a-ding!  Ding—­ding-a-ding_!

  Dong!  Dong!  Dong! 
     There’s a shadow on the marn,
  Dong!  Dong!  Dong! 
     The one larst bell du warn: 
  “O fulish mun!  O fulish mun! 
     Life be no more than grass,
  It glitters in the shinin’ zun—­
     Until the Reaper pass! 
  An’, hark!  I call ’ee up to prayer,
     Wi’ passen, clerk, an’ schule,
  Come up along, an’ take thee seat
     Thou ole pig-headed fule!”

  Dong! Dong! Dong!

UNCLE TOBY AND THE FLY
[Sidenote:  Sterne]

My uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries;—­not from want of courage,—­I have told you in a former chapter, “that he was a man of courage":—­And will add here, that where just occasions presented, or called it forth,—­know no man under whose arm I would have sooner taken shelter;—­nor did this arise from any insensibility or obtuseness of his intellectual parts;—­for he felt this insult of my father’s as feelingly as a man could do;—­but he was of a peaceful, placid nature,—­no jarring element in it,—­all was mixed up so kindly within him; my uncle Toby had scarce a heart to retaliate upon a fly.

—­Go—­says he, one day at dinner, to an over-grown one which had buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner-time,—­and which, after infinite attempts, he had caught at last, as it flew by him;—­I’ll not hurt thee, says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going across the room, with the fly in his hand,—­I’ll not hurt a hair of thy head;—­Go, says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape;—­go, poor devil, get thee gone, why should I hurt thee?—­This world surely is wide enough to hold both thee and me.