Love, farewell!
Och, Judy! should I die in glory,
In the papers ye’ll read my awful story
But I’m so bother’d by your charms,
I’d rather far die in your arms.
Och! Love, farewell!
Great was the applause which the sergeant’s melody drew down, and, what was probably even more satisfactory to the honest gentleman, a loud demand arose for a fresh supply of “the raw material and the carouse was vigorously resumed. Left to themselves, the young travellers had talked over their meeting on the mountain, and spoke of their journey to the neighbouring town next day where their road-companionship was to terminate. The intended parting was not mentioned with indifference, for the poor girl sighed heavily, her face became sad, and her eyes filled fast. In a faction fight, where skulls were cracked like walnuts, Mark Antony was every inch a hero—but his heart was true Milesian, and a woman’s sorrow rendered it soft as a turnip. He took the wanderer’s hand affectionately, kissed away the tear that trickled down her cheek, and endeavoured to dispel her melancholy.
“Cheer up,” he said; “you have happier days before you, and youth enough to wait for them. How can I serve you, Julia.-’ I know an empty pocket makes a heavy heart—but we’ll share to the last shilling—” and quick as lightning a green silk purse that I had given to the fosterer the night we parted, was transferred from his pocket to the wanderer’s hand. “Come. Julia,” he continued, “will I bring you home?”
The poor girl shook her head, and gratefully returned the purse.
“Take half, at least,” exclaimed Mark Antony; “there’s only five pounds in notes, and three guineas and a half in gold. May’be it may carry ye to your friends—and if it won’t—I’ll list, and that will make up the difference.”