"Alton, 'tis now your turn!"
Up rose the Marquis, tossed off his glass, fished a somewhat crumpled paper from his pocket and incontinent gave tongue:
"A song I sing in praise of Bet
I sing a song o' she, sirs
O let the ploughboy curse and sweat
But what is that to me, sirs?
My bully boys, brave bully boys
But what is that to me, sirs?"
"Here's that misfortunate ploughboy sweating again!" sighed Alvaston, while Sir Benjamin choked with wine and indignant horror:
"Hold, od's my life—Alton, hold!" he gasped. "Heaven save us, what's all this? 'Twill never do——"
"Sink me, Ben—why not?"
"Because it sounds like nothing in the world but a low drinking catch, sir, mingled and confused with a vulgar hunting-snatch."
"Nay, you'll find it betters as it goes—heark'ee!"
"I love the pretty birds to hear;
The horn upon the hill
But when my buxom Bet appear
Her voice is sweeter still
Brave boys!
Her voice is sweeter still!
"The fish that doth in water swim
Though burnished bright he be
Doth all his scaly splendours dim
If Bet he chance to see.
Brave boys!
If Bet he chance to see.