_G._ Were not proud of them--
Eh, mother?
_M._ I set store by mine, 'tis true,
But then I had good cause.
_G._ My lad, d'ye hear?
Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud!
She never spoilt your father--no, not she,
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home,
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop,
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed
Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth.
_M._ Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more
Your father loved to hear you sing--he did,
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune
From the other.
_F._ No, he got his voice from you:
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep.
_G._ What must I sing?
_F._ The ballad of the man
That is so shy he cannot speak his mind.
_G._ Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves;
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off.
And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in:
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs,
And let's to supper shortly.
[_Sings._]
My neighbor White--we met to-day--
He always had a cheerful way,
As if he breathed at ease;
My neighbor White lives down the glade,
And I live higher, in the shade
Of my old walnut-trees.
So many lads and lasses small,
To feed them all, to clothe them all,
Must surely tax his wit;
I see his thatch when I look out,
His branching roses creep about,
And vines half smother it.
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