And the boy began, in a broad country twang, which could not overpower the sad melody of the air, or the rich sweetness of his flute-like voice,—
‘Young Mary walked sadly down through the green clover,
And sighed as she looked at the babe at her breast;
“My roses are faded, my false love a rover,
The green graves they call me, ‘Come home to your rest.’”
‘Then by rode a soldier in gorgeous arraying,
And “Where is your bride-ring, my fair maid?” he cried;
“I ne’er had a bride-ring, by false man’s betraying,
Nor token of love but this babe at my side.
‘“Tho’ gold could not buy me, sweet words could deceive me;
So faithful and lonely till death I must roam.”
“Oh, Mary, sweet Mary, look up and forgive me,
With wealth and with glory your true love comes home;
‘“So give me my own babe, those soft arms adorning,
I’ll wed you and cherish you, never to stray;
For it’s many a dark and a wild cloudy morning,
Turns out by the noon-time a sunshiny day.”’
‘A bad moral that, sir,’ whispered Tregarva.
‘Better than none,’ answered Lancelot.
‘It’s well if you are right, sir, for you’ll hear no other.’
The keeper spoke truly; in a dozen different songs, more or less coarsely, but, in general, with a dash of pathetic sentiment, the same case of lawless love was embodied. It seemed to be their only notion of the romantic. Now and then there was a poaching song; then one of the lowest flash London school—filth and all—was roared in chorus in presence of the women.
‘I am afraid that you do not thank me for having brought you to any place so unfit for a gentleman,’ said Tregarva, seeing Lancelot’s sad face.