BELL:
Well: you’re a bonnie lass, I must admit:
And, if I’d fancied daughters, I might have done
Much worse than let young Michael pick them for me:
He’s not gone poseying in the kitchen garden.
I never guessed he’d an eye for aught but ewes:
As, blind as other mothers, I’d have sworn
I’d kenned him, inside-out, since he was--nay!
But he was never a rapscallion ripstitch--
Always a prim and proper little man,
A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth young sobersides,
Since he found his own feet. Yet, the blade that’s wed--
The jack-knife, turned into a pair of scissors--
Without a word, is not the son I thought him.
There’s something of his mammy, after all,
In Michael: and as for you, my lass, you’re just
Your minney’s very spit.

RUTH:
You ken my mother?

BELL:
Ken Judith Ellershaw? You’ll ask me, next,
If I’m acquainted with Bell Haggard. Well,
Gaping for turnips, Michael?

MICHAEL:
I never heard ...