M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might,
For she can sit at ease and pay her way;
A sober husband, too—­a cheerful man—­
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her;
Yet she is never easy, never glad,
Because she has not children.  Well-a-day! 
If she could know how hard her mother worked,
And what ado I had, and what a moil
With my half-dozen!  Children, ay, forsooth,
They bring their own love with them when they come,
But if they come not there is peace and rest;
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more: 
Why the world’s full of them, and so is heaven—­
They are not rare.

G. No, mother, not at all; But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long—­ She spoils her.

M. Ah! folks spoil their children now; When I was a young woman ’twas not so; We made our children fear us, made them work, Kept them in order.

G. Were not proud of them—­ Eh, mother?

M. I set store by mine, ’tis true, But then I had good cause.

G. My lad, d’ye hear?  Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud!  She never spoilt your father—­no, not she, Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, Nor at the forge, nor at the baker’s shop, Nor to the doctor while she lay abed Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth.

M. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what’s more Your father loved to hear you sing—­he did, Although, good man, he could not tell one tune From the other.

F. No, he got his voice from you:  Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep.

  G. What must I sing?

F. The ballad of the man That is so shy he cannot speak his mind.

G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves; But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off.  And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in:  Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, And let’s to supper shortly.

[Sings.]

    My neighbor White—­we met to-day—­
    He always had a cheerful way,
      As if he breathed at ease;
    My neighbor White lives down the glade,
    And I live higher, in the shade
      Of my old walnut-trees.

    So many lads and lasses small,
    To feed them all, to clothe them all,
      Must surely tax his wit;
    I see his thatch when I look out,
    His branching roses creep about,
      And vines half smother it.

    There white-haired urchins climb his eaves,
    And little watch-fires heap with leaves,
      And milky filberts hoard;
    And there his oldest daughter stands
    With downcast eyes and skilful hands
      Before her ironing-board.

    She comforts all her mother’s days,
    And with her sweet obedient ways
      She makes her labor light;
    So sweet to hear, so fair to see! 
    O, she is much too good for me,
      That lovely Lettice White!