[_Applause._

_Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small
And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush
Till all her face is roses newly blown.
How folks do clap. She knows not where to look.
There now she's off; he standing like a man
To face them.

_Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her;
But what's the good of clapping when they're gone?

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told,
And means they'd have 'em back to sing again.

_Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire,
Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat;
And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on.
Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though.

_Vicar presents the young man again_.


SONG.

I.

Rain clouds flew beyond the fell,
No more did thunders lower,