There was a man walking in the woods, with a slight limp in his gait. He was coarsely but comfortably dressed, and had something very like a Cretan cap upon his head. His face was a merry face, well preserved in wine or some other strong liquor; and, from the leathern belt, which girt his brown coat close round his waist, stuck out, on the one side a long knife, and on the other the chanter of a bagpipe. The bag, alas, was gone.
He looked up at the blue clear sky. He looked up at the green leaves, just peering from the branches over his head; and, as he went, he sang; for his pipes had been spoiled by Catesby's soldiery, and his own throat was the only instrument of music left him.
SONG.
Oh, merry spring, merry spring!
With sunshine on thy back, and dew upon thy wing
Sweetest bird of all the year.
How I love to see thee here.
And thy choristers to hear,
As they sing.
Oh happy time, happy time!
When buds of hawthorn burst, and honeysuckles climb,
And the maidens of the May,
Hear the sweet bells as they play.
And make out what they say
In their chime.
Oh jolly hours, jolly hours!
Of young and happy hearts, in gay and pleasant bowers,