neroid? ere starting you shall see
How truly mine prognosticates what weather there will be."
"I ain't got no such gimcracks; but I knows there'll be a flush
When I sees th'oud ram tak shelter wi' his tail agen a bush."

"Allow me first to show you the analysis I keep,
And the compounds to explain of this experimental heap,
Where hydrogen and nitrogen and oxygen abound,
To hasten germination and to fertilize the ground."

"A putty sight o' learning you have piled up of a ruck;
The only name it went by in my feyther's time was muck.
I knows not how the tool you call a nallysis may work,
I turns it when it's rotten pretty handy wi' a fork."

"A famous pen of Cotswolds, pass your hand along the back,
Fleeces fit for stuffing the Lord Chancellor's woolsack!
For premiums e'en 'Inquisitor' would own these wethers _are_ fit,
If you want to purchase good uns you must go to Mr. Garsit.[1]

"Two bulls first rate, of different breeds, the judges all
protest
Both are so super-excellent, they know not which is best.
Fair[1] could he see this Ayrshire, would with jealousy be riled;
That hairy one's a Welshman, and was bred by Mr. Wild."[1]

"Well, well, that little hairy bull, he shanna be so bad:
But what be yonder beast I hear, a-bellowing like mad,
A-snorting fire and smoke out? be it some big Roosian gun!
Or be it twenty bullocks squez together into one?"

"My steam factotum, that, Sir, doing all I have to do,
My ploughman and my reaper, and my jolly thrasher, too!
Steam's yet but in its infancy, no mortal man alive
Can tell to what perfection modern farming will arrive."

"Steam as yet is but an infant"--he had scarcely said the word,
When through the tottering farmstead was a loud explosion heard;
The engine dealing death around, destruction and dismay;
Though steam be but an infant this indeed was no child's play.

The women screamed like blazes, as the blazing hayrick burned,
The sucking pigs were in a crack, all into crackling turned;
Grilled chickens clog the hencoop, roasted ducklings choke the
gutter,
And turkeys round the poultry yard on devilled pinions flutter.

Two feet deep in buttermilk the stoker's two feet lie,
The cook before she bakes it finds a finger in the pie;
The labourers for their lost legs ar