a right proper man she has at last;
Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought)
To court her after work hours, that he doth,
Not like her other--why, he'd let his work
Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love,
While he would sit and look, and look and sigh.
Her father sent him to the right-about.
'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you,
Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for.
The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man;
The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.'

_Vicar presents a young man and a girl._

DUET.

_She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire,
And yon red logs glow,
Honey, whisper by the fire,
Whisper, honey low.

_He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill,
Stiff's yon weary loam;
Lacks the work o' my goodwill,
Fain I'd take thee home.
O how much longer, and longer, and longer,
An' how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past.

_She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry,
Bide awhile, let be.
_He_. Take my wage then, lay it by,
Till 't come back with thee.
The red money, the white money,
Both to thee I bring--
_She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey?
_He_. Honey, ay, the ring.

_Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer,
O how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past.

[_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,
Patter, patter, on the beck
Dropt a clearing shower.
Eddying floats of creamy foam