“You’ve got one. Now, tell me what you sing to her.”
With a look of nonchalance, which thinly covered over an abundance of sheepishness, the rustic swain pooh-poohed the idea, and, in defiance, sang the following—
To wed in a hurry, of that oh! beware;
You had far better drag on alone;
What, tho’ she be fair, a wife brings much care,
With marriage all merriment’s flown.
Well, suppose you have land, and flocks and herds too,
But at Yule, when they’re all in the byre,
It perhaps happen can, that you’ve scarce a handfu’
Of fodder the cattle to cheer.