Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/96

 

There's one thing it grieves me uncommon to say—
To the gloom of his path he'd provided no ray;
As a palpable "Hedge" to a dull country life
He should (so the ladies said) take him a wife;
And the truth shall be known,
For the fault was his own,
That he'd no "flesh of his flesh,"
Or "bone of his bone."

For mothers were constantly bringing their daughters,
Who "painted on velvet," and "played," from all quarters;
But, with grief be it said, that to happiness dead,
He hinted "at present" he shouldn't get wed:
He don't know what to do,
And the devils so blue
Come to visit him oft,
And torment him a few.

At last a near neighbour, a fox hunting squire,
Who Maxwell's "pale brandy" and weed did admire,
Said he'd send him a horse to Spottleback Gorse,
And Maxwell accepted his offer, of course;
He look'd quite the "cheese,"
From his "heel" to his "nob,"
As he rode to the "meet"
On his bonesetting cob.

But it's one thing to meet them, another to go,
As poor Maxwell's exploits in the sequel will show;
They are thrown into "covert," they have found, and are gone;
"Hark! forward! they're running, and Maxwell makes one;