We're ready. Lucky too! you always go
Above the people's heads.

_Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._

SONG.

I.

Sparkle of snow and of frost,
Blythe air and the joy of cold,
Their grace and good they have lost,
As print o' her foot by the fold.
Let me back to yon desert sand,
Rose-lipped love--from the fold,
Flower-fair girl--from the fold,
Let me back to the sultry land.
The world is empty of cheer,
Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn,
As the night-owl's sob of fear,
As Memnon moaning at morn.
For love of thee, my dear,
I have lived a better man,
O my Mary Anne,
My Mary Anne.

II.

Away, away, and away,
To an old palm-land of tombs,
Washed clear of our yesterday
And where never a snowdrop blooms,
Nor wild becks talk as they go
Of tender hope we had known,
Nor mosses of memory grow
All over the wayside stone.

III.

Farewell, farewell, and farewell,
As voice of a lover's sigh
In the wind let yon willow wave
'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.'
The sparkling frost-stars brave
On thy shrouded bosom lie;
Thou art gone apart to dwell,
But I fain would have said good-bye.
For love of thee in thy grave
I have lived a better man,
O my Mary Anne,
My Mary Anne.

_Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song!
To think on it, and he a married man!

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Bless you, that makes for nothing, nothing at
all,
They take no heed upon the words. His wife,
Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him.

_Mrs. T. (aside)._ Neighbours, there's one thing beats me. We've enough
O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill
Many and many a time by my own fire:
Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me
And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet,
One sings of other souls and how they mourned?
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'