Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe,
That would her follow bleating,
A heifer white as snow
I'll give to my sweet sweeting.
Touch the sweet string. If yet too young,
O love of loves, for this my song,
I'll pray thee count it all unsung,
And wait thy leisure, wait it long.
Touch the sweet string.
[Much applause.
Vicar. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play
again,
Your neighbours ask it.
Fiddler. Thank ye, neighbours all,
I have my feelings though I be but poor;
I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year,
And I should know the trick on 't.
The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings.
For Exmoor— For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart doth cry. She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. (Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters, buy.)
For Exmoor—
O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh,
'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling
shy,
Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.'
(Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy.)
For Exmoor—
Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I,
Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry.
Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh.
(Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy.)
Mrs. T. (aside). I've known him play that Exmoor
song afore.
'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish
To hear 't no more.