Hello, me dearios. I've been perambulatin' again. Perambulatin' I have. And my peregrinations, they have revealed much to me about the ways of our island people.
I did follow the ancient Way of the Cladger, through the old branglin' grounds of Somerset, and there I did espy the Church of St Ethel, at Upper Nacker, where lie the remains of Gideon Piddler, the inventor of the Steam Grundler in 1845. Prior to this happy discovery, all the grundlin' had to be done by hand, using the oak-handled thrabble and its companion piece, the horn-shafted nabble. The grundlin' gangs would be at it for weeks, a thrabblin' and a nabblin' away, whereas the Steam Grundler made short work of the harvest, makin' for plenty of opportunities for the grundlers to make merry at the Twindlin' Fairs that were held upalong and downalong the Quantocks, at harvest home.
Next I did hie me across to Devonshire. There I did pay homage to the Gussop-Ho! at Widgertiddlecombe, where serried ranks of curt knaves in rough jerkins did pladge their noolies in the Humperin' Jig, in which they displayed their proud mollocks to the village maidens, singin' all the while the timeless words of the Ballad of the Wanton Gussop-Prangler:
It grows so dry, It grows so dry
My Pissock has need of thy greasy Clunt
With a spiddle and a friddle go nollopin' I
Many was the flagon of Grimple's Old Nadger that was sunk by the jolly lads that evenin', for well they might revel in their humperin', now that their pluttockin' was scroggled through, and the grunnions and falgy nurmits were salted away for the winter in the wooden nidgers.
'Twas but a short gallop from here to the Cornish seaport and fishery of Polnobstack, where I witnessed the midnight harvest of the sea-beetroot, which they call the 'Pluffy Ningo'. The plaintive cry of the Pluffy Ningo-Huer rang out from his Pluffy Ningo-Huer's hut high on Polparrot Cliff in the moonlight and then the Pluffy Ningo sea coracles set forth across the glitterin' waters of Gramgrumple Bay for the beetroot grounds.
All the night and through the next day the grand ceremony of the Higgle-Do went on. The old maids, wearin' trandle-caps and carryin' pig's bladders full of custard, chased the Giant Todger about the narrow streets with cries of 'Hadger Fraddle and Bandlin' Be!', 'We Shall Dip Thy Todger In My Custard-Oh!' and 'Give Us A Handful Of Todger Today!'
It was at the height of these revelries that I then did repair, me old dearios, to The Plagger's Grosset, a traditional hostelry at the harbour, and there I drank a foaming jug of Trevithick's Tawny Ale, and moved to tears I was, by a fair maid in a blue bonnet and Hufflewife's Apron, as she sang The Lament Of The Gooseherd's Mistress:
Singin' 'Pluck me a passet of narple and chuffter'
For the gooseherd's a-swanglin' an' quoshin' his nole
Singin' 'Lather me nublets in thassocks of bruff'.
And now I must hie me to Fraddledum Fair
Singin' 'Wash all me grimlets in froppins of drampy'
For the gooseherd has nary a plodger to spare
Singin' 'Cottle me boskins, the plidger's all hamp'.
So I tell of the Choff Man who drangles his nasp
Singin' 'Scrong up your prindles and wongle me nullions'
And I dream of a Himper who throngles me thrasps
Singin' 'Bandy my thrattocks, my waskins be full'.
And there I must take my leave of you, me dearios, for my peregrinations never end. Endless, my peregrinations be, me dearios, and I perforce must bid you farewell, with these words from the Prayer Of The Dorset Proll-Nangler: