and here't be.

[He holds out his mug.]

BURLACOMBE. [Tartly] Here, give 'im 'is cider. Rade it yureself,
ye young teasewings.

[CLYST, having secured his cider, drinks it o$. Holding up the
paper to the light, he makes as if to begin, then slides his
eye round, tantalizing.]

CLYST. 'Tes a pity I bain't dressed in a white gown, an' flowers in
me 'air.

FREMAN. Read it, or we'll 'aye yu out o' this.

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,