"The miller was blithe in the red, red morn. And he sung ere the lark left her nest; His heart was bright as the gold, gold light That comes o'er the dappled east."
hermione.
Nay, that sorts not with my humour, Blanch.
blanch.
Shall I try the merry troll you were always right glad to hear, which the old steward taught us?
"Roundabout, roundabout, laugh and glee So merry, so merry—"
hermione.
Stay:—not now:—some other song, and we'll in to the toilet: let it be brief—I know not why,—save that I think thy singing hath not now such a jocund and mirthful spirit in it.
blanch.
Ah, lady!—but strange purposes are i' the wind when the mirth-giving Hermione becometh a lover of lamentable ditties!—Stay, shall it be of love?—a sleepy tale of love, as you were wont to call it?—I know a ballad of this hue.
hermione.
I care not: another, it may be, would have chimed better. Yet, I'll hear thee as a babbler of strange stories.
blanch (sings).
"Up with the light, My maiden bright, The thrush twitters on the tree; Each merry, merry bird to his mate doth call, And the bridal waits for thee!
"The sunbeams pass On the dew-spread grass, And gold gleams are in the sky; The morn's balmy breeze to thy casement hies, And thy bridegoom is waiting for thee."