A body would have thought that did not know
Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth.
Or else would all folk flee away from them.

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best.

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him!
'Tis as who should say,
Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song;
As if they did not know he loves to sing.
Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow
On Sunday in the church is half so sweet;
But he's a hard man.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all,
Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard--
If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful
Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish
Your own time would come over again, although
Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings.

_Young farmer sings again._


'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise;
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood.
'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our
eyes,
Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and
right good.'