They are type of love forsaken.
For with pansies do I flout thee,
Doubt thee! flout thee! flout thee! doubt thee!
Hey, jolly shepherd, come not a-courting,
Join will I not in such silly, silly sporting,
With a fa-la-la-la, jolly shepherd.”
“Where did you learn that pretty song?” asked Maurice, whom the air struck as familiar.
“My father taught it to me,” replied Helena, putting her head on one side to observe the effect of a newly added rose. “Is it not dainty? Ribbons, and silks, and flowers, and pipings; quite unlike the real shepherds and shepherdesses of Melnos, but deliciously delicate for all that.”
“I wonder where your father picked it up?”
“Oh, father knows plenty of old tunes, and I am so fond of them. Why do you ask?”