''Twill be a sorrowful barley-mow song this year,' he said; 'a dozen brave lads from Bradford alone will be dead.'
'Not all dead, Barnaby! Oh! not all!'
'I know not. Some are prisoners, some are dead, some are running away.' Then he began to sing in a low voice,
'Here's a health to the barley-mow—
I remember, Sister, when I would run a mile to hear that song, though my father flogged me for it in the morning. 'Tis the best song ever written.' He went on singing in a kind of whisper—
'We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys—
Robin—poor Robin! he is dead!—was a famous hand at singing it; but Humphrey found the words too rustical. Humphrey—who is now dead, too!—was ever for fine words, like Mr. Boscorel.
'We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl—
'I think I see him now—poor Robin! Well; he is no more. He used to laugh in all our faces while he sang it:—