Clyst. Aw, don’t ’ee shake my nerve, now!

     [He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring
     voice.  Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines]

          God lighted the zun in ’eaven far. 
          Lighted the virefly an’ the star. 
          My ’eart ’E lighted not!

          God lighted the vields fur lambs to play,
          Lighted the bright strames, ’an the may. 
          My ’eart ’E lighted not!

          God lighted the mune, the Arab’s way,
          He lights to-morrer, an’ to-day. 
          My ’eart ’E ’ath vorgot!

     [When he has finished, there is silence.  Then Trustaford,
     scratching his head, speaks:]

TAUSTAFORD.  ‘Tes amazin’ funny stuff.

Freman. [Looking over Clyst’s shoulder] Be danged!  ’Tes the curate’s ‘andwritin’.  ‘Twas curate wi’ the ponies, after that.

Clyst. Fancy, now!  Aw, Will Freman, an’t yu bright!

Freman.  But ’e ’adn’t no bird on ’is ’ead.

Clyst. Ya-as, ’e ’ad.

Jarland. [In a dull, threatening voice] ’E ’ad my maid’s bird, this arternune.  ’Ead or no, and parson or no, I’ll gie ’im one for that.

Freman.  Ah!  And ‘e meddled wi’ my ’orses.

Trustaford.  I’m thinkin’ ’twas an old cuckoo bird ’e ’ad on ’is ’ead.  Haw, haw!

Godleigh.  “His ’eart She ’ath Vorgot!”

Freman.  ‘E’s a fine one to be tachin’ our maids convirmation.

Godleigh.  Would ye ‘ave it the old Rector then?  Wi’ ’is gouty shoe? 
Rackon the maids wid rather ’twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe?

Burlacombe. [Abruptly] Curate’s a gude man.

Jarland. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I’ll be even wi’ un.

Freman. [Excitedly] Tell ‘ee one thing—­’tes not a proper man o’ God to ‘ave about, wi’ ’is luse goin’s on.  Out vrom ’ere he oughter go.

Burlacombe.  You med go further an’ fare worse.

Freman.  What’s ‘e duin’, then, lettin’ ’is wife runoff?

Trustaford. [Scratching his head] If an’ in case ’e can’t kape ’er, ‘tes a funny way o’ duin’ things not to divorce ’er, after that.  If a parson’s not to du the Christian thing, whu is, then?

Burlacombe.  ’Tes a bit immoral-like to pass over a thing like that. 
Tes funny if women’s gain’s on’s to be encouraged.

Freman.  Act of a coward, I zay.

Burlacombe.  The curate ain’t no coward.

Freman.  He bides in yure house; ’tes natural for yu to stand up for un; I’ll wager Mrs. Burlacombe don’t, though.  My missis was fair shocked.  “Will,” she says, “if yu ever make vur to let me go like that, I widden never stay wi’ yu,” she says.

Trustaford.  ‘Tes settin’ a bad example, for zure.