[Much applause.

Vicar.  You hear them, Sam.  You needs must play
again,
Your neighbours ask it.

Fiddler.  Thank ye, neighbours all, I have my feelings though I be but poor; I’ve tanged the fiddle here this forty year, And I should know the trick on ’t.

The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings.

For Exmoor—­
For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart
  doth cry. 
She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. 
Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky.
(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters,
      buy.)

For Exmoor—­
O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh,
’Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling
     shy,
Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.’
(Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy.)

For Exmoor—­
Dear my dear, why did ye so?  Evil days have I,
Mark no more the antler’d stag, hear the curlew cry. 
Milking at my father’s gate while he leans anigh.
(Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy.)

Mrs. T. (aside). I’ve known him play that Exmoor
song afore. 
’Ah me! and I’m from Exmoor.  I could wish
To hear ’t no more.

Mrs. S. (aside). Neighbours, ’t is mighty hot.  Ay, now they throw the window up, that’s well, A body could not breathe.

[The fiddler and his daughter go away.

Mrs. Jillifer (aside). They’ll hear no parson’s preaching,
no not they! 
But innocenter songs, I do allow,
They could not well have sung than these to-night.  That man knows just so well as if he saw They were not welcome.

The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice.  A little tittering is heard in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited.

I.

O my heart! what a coil is here! 
Laurie, why will ye hold me dear? 
Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail,
With a wiser lass ye’ll sure prevail,
For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. 
And there’s no sense in it under the sun;
For of three that woo I can take but one,
So what’s to be done—­what’s to be done? 
        And
There’s no sense in it under the sun.

II.

Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts
Come home you’ll choose among kinder hearts. 
Forget, forget, you’re too good to hold
A fancy ’t were best should faint, grow cold,
And fade like an August marigold;
For of three that woo I can take but one,
And what’s to be done—­what’s to be done? 
There’s no sense in it under the sun,
             And
Of three that woo I can take but one.