human
Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing-- So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child-- Chrisom child.
gpt
Who's Mike? my brother growled A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman--
human
Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more; But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'
gpt
There, fisherman, quoth I,
human
Ay, ay, Sir! quoth the fisherman.
gpt
Have done! My brother. And I--
human
The gift belongs to few Of sending farther than the words can reach Their spirit and expression; still--
gpt
Have done! He cried; and then
human
I rolled the rubbish out More loudly than the meaning warranted, To air my lungs--I thought not on the words.
gpt
So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir, Please God you live till Sunday.
human
Even so: And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say, You are all church-goers.
gpt
Surely, Sir, quoth he, Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, As one that utters with a quiet mind Unchallenged truth--