Becket And Other Plays Part 68

_Enter_ HAYMAKERS _with a load of hay_.

The last on it, eh?

1ST HAYMAKER.

Yeas.

DOBSON.

Hoam wi' it, then. [_Exit surlily_.

1ST HAYMAKER.

Well, it be the last load hoam.

2ND HAYMAKER.

Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What maakes 'im allus sa glum?

SALLY ALLEN.

Glum! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaay i' the haayfield, when mea and my sweet'art was a workin' along o' one side wi' one another, and he sent 'im awaay to t'other end o' the field; and when I axed 'im why, he telled me 'at sweet'arts niver worked well togither; and I telled _'im_ 'at sweet'arts allus worked best togither; and then he called me a rude naame, and I can't abide 'im.

JAMES.

Why, la.s.s, doant tha knaw he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weant sa much as look at 'im? And wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts togither like thou and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen wi' spites and jalousies.

SALLY.

Let 'im bust hissen, then, for owt _I_ cares.

1ST HAYMAKER.

Well but, as I said afoor, it be the last load hoam; do thou and thy sweet'art sing us hoam to supper--'The Last Load Hoam.'

ALL.

Ay! 'The Last Load Hoam.'

_Song_.

What did ye do, and what did ye saay, Wi' the wild white rose, an' the woodbine sa gaa'y, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue-- What did ye saay, and what did ye do, When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' you, And you an' your Sally was forkin' the haay, At the end of the daay, For the last load hoam?

What did we do, and what did we saay, Wi' the briar sa green, an' the willer sa graay, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue-- Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you, What we mowt saay, and what we mowt do, When me an' my Sally was forkin' the haay, At the end of the daay, For the last load hoam?

But what did ye saay, and what did ye do, Wi' the b.u.t.terflies out, and the swallers at plaa'y, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue?

Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to you; For me an' my Sally we swear'd to be true, To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, Till the end of the daay And the last load hoam.

ALL.

Well sung!

JAMES.

f.a.n.n.y be the naame i' the song, but I swopt it fur _she_.

[_Pointing to_ SALLY.

SALLY.

Let ma aloan afoor foalk, wilt tha?

1ST HAYMAKER.

Ye shall sing that agean to-night, fur owd Dobson'll gi'e us a bit o'

supper.

SALLY.

I weant goa to owd Dobson; he wur rude to me i' tha haayfield, and he'll be rude to me agean to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his gra.s.s down and wants a hand, and I'll goa to him.

1ST HAYMAKER.

Owd Steer gi'es nubbut cowd tea to '_is_ men, and owd Dobson gi'es beer.

SALLY.

But I'd like owd Steer's cowd tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye.

[Going.

JAMES.

Gi'e us a buss fust, la.s.s.

SALLY.

I tell'd tha to let ma aloan!

JAMES.

Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the haayc.o.c.k, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloan if I would, Sally.

[Offering to kiss her.

SALLY.

Git along wi' ye, do! [_Exit_.

[_All laugh; exeunt singing_.

'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, Till the end o' the daa'y An' the last load hoam.'

_Enter_ HAROLD.

HAROLD.

Not Harold! 'Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!'

Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved.

I told her I should hear her from the grave.

Ay! yonder is her cas.e.m.e.nt. I remember Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat Thro' every sensual course of that full feast That leaves but emptiness.

_Song_.

'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, To the end o' the daa'y An' the last load hoam.'

HAROLD.

Poor Eva! O my G.o.d, if man be only A w.i.l.l.y-nilly current of sensations-- Reaction needs must follow revel--yet-- Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny?

Remorse then is a part of Destiny, Nature a liar, making us feel guilty Of her own faults.

My grandfather--of him They say, that women-- O this mortal house, Which we are born into, is haunted by The ghosts of the dead pa.s.sions of dead men; And these take flesh again with our own flesh, And bring us to confusion.

He was only A poor philosopher who call'd the mind Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa.

There, there, is written in invisible inks 'l.u.s.t, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, Cowardice, Murder'--and the heat and fire Of life will bring them out, and black enough, So the child grow to manhood: better death With our first wail than life--

Song (further off).