“That’s nothin yet, to Tom’s mishap! 
A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,
Only to fetch his milking-pails,
When up he shies like head or tails;
Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,
Till he had toss’d the best o’ three;—­
And there lies Tom with broken bones,
A surgeon’s job for Doctor Jones;
Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,
’There’s two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,—­
Eat well,’ says he, ’stuff out your case,
For that will keep the ribs in place;’
But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,
Seeing as how he’d broke his jaw? 
That’s summut to the pint—­yes, yes,
That’s Hagricultural Distress!”

SIMON.

“Well, turn and turn about is fair: 
Tom’s bad enough, and so’s the mare;
But nothing to my load of hay—­
You see, ’twas hard on quarter-day,
And cash was wanted for the rent;
So up to Lonnon I was sent,
To sell as prime a load of hay,
As ever dried on summer’s day.

“Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,
A chap comes up to buy my load,
And looks, and looks about the cart,
Pretending to be ’cute and smart;
But no great judge, as people say,
’Cause why? he never smelt the hay. 
Thinks I, as he’s a simple chap,
He’ll give a simple price mayhap,
Such buyers comes but now and then,
So slap I axes nine pun’ ten. 
‘That’s dear,’ says he, and pretty quick
He taps his leathers with his stick. 
‘Suppose,’ says he, ’we wet our clay,
Just while we bargin ’bout the hay. 
So in we goes, my chap and me;
He drinks to I, and I to he;
At last, says I, a little gay,
‘It’s time to talk about that hay,’
‘Nine pund,’ says he, ’and I’m your man,
Live, and let live—­for that’s my plan.’ 
‘That’s true,’ says I, ’but still I say,
It’s nine pun’ ten for that ‘ere hay,’
And so we chaffers for a bit,
At long and last the odds we split;
And off he sets to show the way,
Where up a yard I leaves the hay. 
Then, from the pocket of his coat,
He pulls a book, and picks a note. 
‘That’s Ten,’ says he—­’I hope to pay
Tens upon tens for loads of hay.’ 
‘With all my heart, and soon,’ says I,
And feeling for the change thereby;
But all my shillings com’d to five—­
Says he, ’No matter, man alive! 
There’s something in your honest phiz
I’d trust, if twice the sum it is;—­
You’ll pay next time you come to town.’ 
‘As sure,’ says I, ‘as corn is brown.’ 
‘All right,’ says he.—­Thinks I ’huzza! 
He’s got no bargain of the hay!’

“Well, home I goes, with empty cart,
Whipping the horses pretty smart,
And whistling ev’ry yard o’ way,
To think how well I’d sold the hay—­
And just cotch’d Master at his greens
And bacon, or it might be beans,
Which didn’t taste the worse sure_ly_,
To hear his hay had gone so high. 
But lord! when I laid down the note,