No milkmaid’s mother sings “an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.” Maudlin and her mother have vanished from the scene. Less pretty and pastoral are three sable minstrels who suddenly glide into our garden walks by the side of the Lea, and burst out, to the music of the banjo, with—
Who’s dat knocking at the door?
The forms of our pleasures and their accompaniments in other respects incessantly change, but their natural backgrounds are eternally fresh and perennially welcome.
THE FORTUNE-TELLER.
A SEAPORT DITTY.
“Hark, my maiden, and I’ll tell you
By the power of my art,
All the things that e’er befel you,
And the secret of your heart.
“How that you love some one,—don’t you?
Love him better than you say;
Won’t you hear, my maiden, won’t you?
What’s to be your wedding-day?”
“Ah, you cheat, with words of honey,
You tell stories, that you know!
Where’s the husband for my money
That I gave you long ago?
“Neither silver, gold, or copper
Shall you get this time from me;
Where’s the husband, tall and proper,
That you told me I should see?”
“Coming still, my maiden, coming,
With two eyes as black as sloes;
Marching soldierly, and humming
Gallant love-songs as he goes.”
“Get along, you stupid gipsy!
I won’t have your barrack-beau;
Strutting up to me half tipsy,
Saucy—with his chin up—so!”
“Come, I’ll tell you the first letter
Of your handsome sailor’s name”—
”I know every one, that’s better,
Thank you, gipsy, all the same.”
“Ha, my maiden, runs your text so?
Now I see the die is cast;
And the day is—Monday next.” “No,
Gipsy, it was—Monday last!”
