XV
She mounted on her milk-white steed,
And led the dapple-grey,
And she rode till she reach’d her father’s gate,
At the breakin’ o’ the day.
XVI
Up then spake the pretty parrot,
‘May Colvin, where have you been?
What has become o’ false Sir John
That went with you yestreen?’—
XVII
‘O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot!
Nor tell no tales o’ me;
Your cage shall be made o’ the beaten gold
And the spokes o’ ivorie.’
XVIII
Up then spake her father dear,
In the bed-chamber where he lay;
‘What ails the pretty parrot,
That prattles so long ere day?’—
XIX
‘There came a cat to my cage, master,
I thought ’t would have worried me,
And I was calling to May Colvín
To take the cat from me.’