After traversing two or three counties, I reached the confines of
Lincolnshire. During one particularly hot day I put up at a
public-house, to which, in the evening, came a party of harvesters to
make merry, who, finding me wandering about the house a stranger, invited
me to partake of their ale; so I drank with the harvesters, who sang me
songs about rural life, such as:--
Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail, as it
sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn.
In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Romanvile, but
the song of 'Sivord and the horse Grayman.' I remained with them till it
was dark, having, after sunset, entered into deep discourse with a
celebrated ratcatcher, who communicated to me the secrets of his trade,
saying, amongst other things: 'When you see the rats pouring out of their
holes, and running up my hands and arms, it's not after me they comes,
but after the oils I carries about me they comes'; and who subsequently
spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it was
the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it was likely
to last for ever; for whereas all other kinds of vermin were fast
disappearing from England, rats were every day becoming more abundant. I
had quitted this good company, and having mounted my horse, was making my
way towards a town at about six miles distance, at a swinging trot, my
thoughts deeply engaged on what I had gathered from the ratcatcher, when
all on a sudden a light glared upon the horse's face, who purled round in
great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, or with as
much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, flings Sivord the
Snareswayne.
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