“It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey and a ho and a hey-nonino.
That o’er the green corn fields did pass
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring-time
When birds do sing, hey-ding-a-ding, ding,
Sweet lovers love the spring.”
“Beshrew me,” remarked Abigail, taking a bite of her apple, “but ye sing strange songs in Boston Town.”
“Did ye ne’er hear tell of Willie Shakespeare, the play-actor,” cried the student. “I am amazed, sore amazed, at your ignorance. Many a rare rhyme has he written, God rest his bones, and betwixt you and me, I, as a Fellow of Harvard, privileged to be learned, find that there are times when his poesy rings with more relish in my ears than the psalms. I have tried my hand at verse-making with fair fortune, though I say it as should not.” Then he burst forth into another rollicking song:—
“Full fathoms five thy father lies;