"If you wore a wig," replied Philina, "I would pluck it very coolly off you; for I think you need to have your understanding opened."
The rest began to think what she could mean: the conversation paused. The party arose; it was now grown late; they seemed about to separate. While they were standing in this undetermined mood, Philina all at once struck up a song, with a very graceful, pleasing tune:—
"Sing me not with such emotion, How the night so lonesome is: Pretty maids, I've got a notion It is the reverse of this.
For as wife and man are plighted, And the better half the wife; So is night to day united: Night's the better half of life.
Can you joy in bustling daytime, Day when none can get his will? It is good for work, for haytime; For much other it is ill.
But when, in the nightly glooming, Social lamp on table glows, Face for faces dear illuming, And such jest and joyance goes;
When the fiery, pert young fellow, Wont by day to run or ride, Whispering now some tale would tell O, All so gentle by your side;
When the nightingale to lovers Lovingly her songlet sings, Which for exiles and sad rovers Like mere woe and wailing rings,—
With a heart how lightsome feeling, Do ye count the kindly clock, Which twelve times deliberate pealing, Tells you none to-night shall knock!
Therefore, on all fit occasions, Mark it, maidens, what I sing: Every day its own vexations, And the night its joys, will bring."