Two bright young women, nothing meek, Rode up on bicycles and propped Their wheels in such wise that they dropped To bring the parson’s son to aid. Their cycling suits were tailor-made Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine. The colour and the zest of wine Were in their presence and their bearing Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing. The parson’s lady thought them pert. And they could mock a man and flirt, Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies, Sing ragtime songs and win at tennis The silver-cigarette-case-prize. They had good colour and bright eyes, Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin, Which many lads had longed to win On darkened stairways after dances. Their reading was the last romances, And they were dashing hockey players, Men called them, ‘Jill and Joan, the slayers.’ They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas.
Old Farmer Bennett followed these Upon his big-boned savage black Whose mule-teeth yellowed to bite back Whatever came within his reach. Old Bennett sat him like a leech The grim old rider seemed to be As hard about the mouth as he.
The beaters nudged each other’s ribs With ‘There he goes, his bloody Nibs. He come on Joe and Anty Cop, And beat ’em with his hunting-crop Like tho’ they’d bin a sack of beans. His pickers were a pack of queans And Joe and Anty took a couple. He caught ’em there, and banged ’em supple. Women and men, he didn’t care (He’d kill ’em someday, if he dare) He beat the whole four nearly dead. “I’ll learn ’ee rabbit in my shed