“Gwen,” I said, “what is it to be buried alive?” Gwen, who was singing her charge to sleep to a lively Welsh air, neither heeded nor heard me.
“Gwen!” I repeated in a louder key.
“Men are false and oft ungrateful,
Derry derry dando,”
sang Gwen, rocking the baby, as she sang, in the most dexterous manner.
Gwen had a beautiful voice, and I liked the old air, so I stayed my impatient question to listen.
“Maids are coy and oft deceitful,
Derry derry dando,
Few there are who love sincerely,
Down a derry down.
Say not so, I love thee dearly,
Derry derry down down,
Derry down down derry.”
“None but thee torment and teaze me,
Derry derry dando,”
I shouted in my impetuous manner, and leaving my seat, I went noisily to her side.
“Gwen, I will be heard. I have not another soul to speak to, and you are so cross and disagreeable. What is it to be buried alive?”
“’Tis just like you, Gwladys,” said Gwen, rising indignantly. “Just after two hours of it, when I was getting the darling precious lamb off to sleep, you’ve gone and awoke him. Dear, dear! good gracious! there never was such a maid!”