TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.
FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.
SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
Oh, when the wind is in the North,
I take my staff and sally forth;
And when it whistles from the East
I do not mind it in the least;
The warm wind murmurs through the trees
Its messages from Southern seas;
But after all perhaps the best
Is that which whispers from the West.
Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
The staff which helps to carry me,
I cut it from the Hazel-tree;
But once I had a cudgel torn
Most circumspectly from the Thorn;
I know a fellow, far from rash,
Who swears entirely by the Ash;
And all good travellers invoke
A blessing on the mighty Oak.
Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
Some years ago I gave my heart
To Prue until we had to part;
Then, seeing Susan's pretty face,
I left it with her for a space;
And Susan had my heart until
I wanted it for Mistress Jill;
I think, although I am not clear,
That Chloe's had it this last year.
Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the applause.)
DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse.
TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow by nature. But waggish—waggish withal.
SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us, Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman only.
TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to it.
MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now?