his waistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with an
extemporising gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantelpiece,
began:

"Oh, my trade it is the rarest one,
Simple shepherds all,
My trade is a sight to see;
For my customers I tie, and take them up on high,
And waft 'em to a far countree."

The room was silent when he had finished the verse, with one exception,
that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at the singer's word,
"Chorus!" joined him in a deep bass voice of musical relish:

"And waft 'em to a far countree."

Oliver Giles, John Pitcher, the dairyman, the parish clerk, the
engaged man of fifty, the row of young women against the wall,
seemed lost in thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd looked
meditatively on the ground; the shepherdess gazed keenly at the
singer, and with some suspicion; she was doubting whether this
stranger was merely singing an old song from recollection, or
composing one there and then for the occasion. All were as perplexed
at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar's feast,
except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said, "Second
verse, stranger," and smoked on.

The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inward, and
went on with the next stanza, as requested: