Zays she, “Let thee and I go our own waay,
And we’ll let she go shis’n.”
“Oh, I say, that beats all!” said the short scholar, with a shout of laughter. “I must have the words somehow. Let’s see, how did he begin? something about Cubit. What a rum notion to call Cupid, Cubit. What was it, Doctor?”
“You shouldn’t laugh, really, Sir, at our west-country sentiment,” said the Doctor, with astounding gravity. “I don’t think I can conscientiously help you to the words, when I know you’ll only be making fun of them at some wine-party. They are meant for malt drinkers, not for wine drinkers.”
“Fudge, Doctor. Come, now, give us the words, or I shall have to go over and ask the performer for them.”
“I think I can give you them,” said I, looking up from my note-book.
“What a thing it is to write shorthand!” said the Doctor, glancing at my hieroglyphics; “we don’t learn that sort of thing down in these parts.”
“I wonder we haven’t had more sentimental songs,” said the long scholar; “I suppose there are plenty of love-stories going about?”
“Oh yes, plenty,” said the Doctor; “mostly ballads telling how rich young heiresses disdained all good matches, for the sake of a sailor boy with tarry trousers, or a seductive fogger, thereby provoking their cruel match-making parents. For instance:—
“Says the daughter to the mother, “Your art is all in vain,