Not finding her, he went into an inn, Busy with ringing till and scratching matches. Where thirsty drovers mingled stout with gin And three or four Welsh herds were singing catches. The swing-doors clattered, letting in in snatches The noises of the fair, now low, now loud. Ern called for beer and glowered at the crowd.
While he was glowering at his drinking there In came the gipsy Bessie, hawking toys; A bold-eyed strapping harlot with black hair, One of the tribe which camped at Shepherd’s Bois. She lured him out of inn into the noise Of the steam-organ where the horses spun, And so the end of all things was begun.
Newness in lust, always the old in love. ’Put up your toys,’ he said, ’and come along, We’ll have a turn of swing-boats up above, And see the murder when they strike the gong.’ ’Don’t ’ee,’ she giggled. ’My, but ain’t you strong. And where’s your proper girl? You don’t know me.’ ’I do.’ ’You don’t.’ ’Why, then, I will,’ said he.
Anna was late because the cart which drove her Called for her late (the horse had broke a trace), She was all dressed and scented for her lover, Her bright blue blouse had imitation lace, The paint was red as roses on her face, She hummed a song, because she thought to see How envious all the other girls would be.
When she arrived and found her Ernie gone, Her bitter heart thought, ’This is how it is. Keeping me waiting while the sports are on: Promising faithful, too, and then to miss. O, Ernie, won’t I give it you for this.’ And looking up she saw a couple cling, Ern with his arm round Bessie in the swing.
Ern caught her eye and spat, and cut her dead, Bessie laughed hardly, in the gipsy way. Anna, though blind with fury, tossed her head, Biting her lips until the red was grey, For bitter moments given, bitter pay, The time for payment comes, early or late, No earthly debtor but accounts to Fate.
She turned aside, telling with bitter oaths What Ern should suffer if he turned agen, And there was Jimmy stripping off his clothes Within a little ring of farming men. ’Now, Jimmy, put the old tup into pen.’ His mother, watching, thought her heart would curdle, To see Jim drag the old ram to the hurdle.
Then the ram butted and the game began, Till Jimmy’s muscles cracked and the ram grunted. The good old wrestling game of Ram and Man, At which none knows the hunter from the hunted. ’Come and see Jimmy have his belly bunted.’ ’Good tup. Good Jim. Good Jimmy. Sick him, Rover, By dang, but Jimmy’s got him fairly over.’