ly," said the Lord Keeper; "but we keep you from your sport, Norman. Good morrow, good Norman."
And humming his rustic roundelay, the yeoman went on his road, the sound of his rough voice gradually dying away as the distance betwixt them increased.
The monk must arise when the matins ring,
The abbot may sleep to their chime;
But the yeoman must start when the bugles sing,
'Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time.
There's bucks and raes on Bilhope braes,
There's a herd in Shortwood Shaw;
But a lily white doe in the garden goes,
She's fairly worth them a'.
"Has this fellow," said the Lord Keeper, when the yeoman's song had died on the wind, "ever served the Ravenswood people, that he seems so much interested in them? I suppose you know, Lucy, for you make it a point of conscience to record
