Rose’s Song
Some folks who have grown old and sour,
Say love does nothing but annoy.
The fact is, they have had their hour,
So envy what they can’t enjoy.
I like the glance—I like the sigh—
That does of ardent passion tell!
If some folks were as young as I,
I’m sure they’d like it quite as well.
Old maiden aunts so hate the men,
So well know how wives are harried,
It makes them sad—not jealous—when
They see their poor dear nieces married.
All men are fair and false, they know,
And with deep sighs they assail ’em,
It’s so long since they tried men, though,
I rather think their mem’ries fail ’em.
Duet (Flam and Rose)
Flam. ’Tis true I’m caressed by the witty,
The envy of all the fine beaux,
The pet of the court and the city,
But still, I’m the lover of Rose.
Rose. Country sweethearts, oh, how I despise!
And oh! how delighted I am
To think that I shine in the eyes
Of the elegant—sweet—Mr. Flam.
Flam. Allow me [offers to kiss her].
Rose. Pray don’t be so bold, sir [kisses her].
Flam. What sweets on that honey’d lip hang!
Rose. Your presumption, I know, I should scold, sir,
But I really can’t scold Mr. Flam.
Both. Then let us be happy together,
Content with the world as it goes,
An unchangeable couple for ever,
Mr. Flam and his beautiful Rose.
Squire Norton’s Song
The child and the old man sat alone
In the quiet, peaceful shade
Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown
In the deep, thick forest glade.
It was a soft and pleasant sound,
That rustling of the oak;
And the gentle breeze played lightly round,
As thus the fair boy spoke:—
‘Dear father, what can honour be,
Of which I hear men rave?
Field, cell and cloister, land and sea,
The tempest and the grave:—
It lives in all, ’tis sought in each,
’Tis never heard or seen:
Now tell me, father, I beseech,
What can this honour mean?’
‘It is a name—a name, my child,—
It lived in other days,
When men were rude, their passions wild,
Their sport, thick battle-frays.
When, in armour bright, the warrior bold
Knelt to his lady’s eyes:
Beneath the abbey pavement old
That warrior’s dust now lies.
‘The iron hearts of that old day
Have mouldered in the grave;
And chivalry has passed away,
With knights so true and brave;
The honour, which to them was life,
Throbs in no bosom now;
It only gilds the gambler’s strife,
Or decks the worthless vow.’
Duet (The Squire and Lucy)
Squire. In rich and lofty station shine,
Before his jealous eyes;
In golden splendour, lady mine,
This peasant youth despise.
Lucy [apart; the Squire regarding her attentively].
Oh! it would be revenge indeed,
With scorn his glance to meet.
I, I, his humble pleading heed!
I’d spurn him from my feet.

Squire. With love and rage her bosom’s torn,
And rash the choice will be;
Lucy. With love and rage my bosom’s torn,
And rash the choice will be.
Squire. From hence she quickly must be borne,
Her home, her home, she’ll flee.
Lucy. Oh! long shall I have cause to mourn
My home, my home, for thee!
Sestet and Chorus
Young Benson. Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast
The old man who has tilled it for years!
Ev’ry tree, ev’ry flower, is linked with the past,
And a friend of his childhood appears.
Turn him from the farm! O’er its grassy hillside,
A gay boy he once loved to range;
His boyhood has fled, and its dear friends are dead,
But these meadows have never known change.
Edmunds. Oppressor, hear me!
Lucy. On my knees I implore.
Squire. I command it, and you will obey.
Rose. Rise, dear Lucy, rise; you shall not kneel before
The tyrant who drives us away.
Squire. Your sorrows are useless, your prayers are in vain:
I command it, and you will begone.
I’ll hear no more.
Edmunds. No, they shall not beg again
Of a man whom I view with deep scorn.
Flam. Do not yield.
Young Benson.
Squire.
Lucy.
Rose.		}Leave the farm!
Edmunds. Your pow’r I despise.
Squire. And your threats, boy, I disregard too.
Flam. Do not yield.
Young Benson.
Squire.
Lucy.
Rose.		}Leave the farm!
Rose. If he leaves it, he dies.
Edmunds. This base act, proud man, you shall rue.
Young Benson. Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast,
The old man who has tilled it for years?
Ev’ry tree, ev’ry flower, is linked with the past,
And a friend of his childhood appears!
Squire. Yes, yes, leave the farm! From his home I will cast
The old man who has tilled it for years;
Though each tree and flower is linked with the past,
And a friend of his childhood appears.
Chorus.
He has turned from his farm! From his home he has cast
The old man who has tilled it for years;
Though each tree and flower is linked with the past,
And a friend of his childhood appears.
Quartet
Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own
Through all changes Fortune may make;
The base charge of falsehood I never have known;
This promise I never will break.
Rose and Lucy.{Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own
Through all changes Fortune may make.
Rose and Lucy.{The base charge of falsehood he never has known;
This promise he never will break.
[Enter Young Benson.]
Young Benson. My sister here! Lucy! begone, I command.
Squire. To your home I restore you again.
Young Benson. No boon I’ll accept from that treacherous hand
As the price of my fair sister’s fame.
Squire. To your home!
Young Benson [to Lucy]. Hence away!
Lucy. Brother dear, I obey.
Squire. I restore.
Young Benson. Hence away!
Young Benson,
Rose, and Lucy.		} Let us leave.
Lucy. He swears it, dear brother.
Squire. I swear it.
Young Benson. Away!
Squire. I swear it.
Young Benson. You swear to deceive.
Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own
Through all changes Fortune may make.
Lucy and Rose.{Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own
Through all changes Fortune may make.
Young Benson. Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is our own
Through all changes Fortune may make.
Squire. The base charge of falsehood I never have known,
This promise I never will break.
Lucy and Rose.{The base charge of falsehood he never has known,
This promise he never will break.
Young Benson. The base charge of falsehood he often has known,
This promise he surely will break.
Squire Norton’s Song
There’s a charm in Spring, when ev’rything
Is bursting from the ground;
When pleasant show’rs bring forth the flow’rs
And all is life around.
In summer day, the fragrant hay
Most sweetly scents the breeze;
And all is still, save murm’ring rill,
Or sound of humming bees.
Old Autumn comes;—with trusty gun
In quest of birds we roam:
Unerring aim, we mark the game,
And proudly bear it home.
A winter’s night has its delight,
Well warmed to bed we go:
A winter’s day, we’re blithe and gay,
Snipe-shooting in the snow.

A country life, without the strife
And noisy din of town,
Is all I need, I take no heed
Of splendour or renown.
And when I die, oh, let me lie
Where trees above me wave;
Let wild plants bloom around my tomb,
My quiet country grave!
Young Benson’s Song
My fair home is no longer mine;
From its roof-tree I’m driven away.
Alas! who will tend the old vine,
Which I planted in infancy’s day!
The garden, the beautiful flowers,
The oak with its branches on high,
Dear friends of my happiest hours,
Among thee I long hoped to die.
The briar, the moss, and the bramble,
Along the green paths will run wild:
The paths where I once used to ramble,
An innocent, light-hearted child.