nct faintly of the rose,
And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow,
Forgotten of all winds (their manifold
Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow),
Floated in purple and gold.
And I, o'er the rocks alone,
Of a shore all silent grown,
Came down to our trysting stone,
And sighed when the solemn ray
Paled in the wake o' the day.
'Wellaway, wellaway,--
Comfort is not by the shore,
Going the gold that it wore,
Purple and rose are no more,
World and waters are wan,
And night will be here anon,
And--bonny Jock's gone.'

_[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam_.

_Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed;
Stand by the parish, and the parish folk,
Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes.
Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl.

_The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings_.

Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart,
Upon the music like a bird;
The silvery notes shall add their part,
And haply yet thou shalt be heard.
Touch the sweet string.

The youngest wren of nine
Dimpled, dark, and merry,
Brown her locks, and her two eyne
Browner than a berry.

When I was not in love
Maidens met I many;
Under sun now walks but one,
Nor others mark I any.

Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe,
That would her follow bleating,
A heifer white as snow
I'll give to my sweet sweeting.

Touch the sweet string. If yet too young,
O love of loves, for this my song,
I'll pray thee count it all unsung,
And wait thy leisure, wait it long.
Touch the sweet string.

[_Much applause_.

_Vicar_. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play
again,
Your neighbours ask it.

_Fiddler_. Thank ye, neighbours all,
I have my feelings though I be but poor;
I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year,
And I should know the trick on 't.

_The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings_.

For Exmoor--
For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart
doth cry.
She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his.
Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky.
_(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters_,
_buy_.)

For Exmoor--
O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh,
'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling
shy,
Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like g