My father had a blue-black head,
My uncle's head was reddish—maybe,
My mother's hair was noways red,
Sing high ho! the pretty baby!
Mark the simplicity of that! 'Tis called
"The Babe's Confession," spoken just before
His father strangled him.
LANCIOTTO. Most marvellous!
You struggle with a legend worth your art.
PEPE. Now to the second stanza. Note the hint
I drop about the baby's parentage:
So delicately too! A maid might sing,
And never blush at it. Girls love these songs
Of sugared wickedness. They'll go miles about,
To say a foul thing in a cleanly way.
A decent immorality, my lord,
Is art's specific. Get the passions up,
But never wring the stomach.
LANCIOTTO. Triumphant art!
PEPE. [Sings.]
My father combed his blue-black head,
My uncle combed his red head—maybe,
My mother combed my head, and said,
Sing high ho! my red-haired baby.
LANCIOTTO. Fie, fie! go comb your hair in private.
PEPE. What!
Will you not hear? Now comes the tragedy. [Sings.]
My father tore my red, red head,
My uncle tore my father's—maybe,
My mother tore both till they bled—
Sing high ho! your brother's baby!