“‘For Thou art the King of men, my son; Thy crown I see it plain; And men shall worship Thee, every one, And cry, Glory! Amen.” “Babe Jesus open’d His eyes so wide! At Mary look’d her Lord. And Mary stinted her song and sigh’d. Babe Jesus said never a word.” When Jane had done singing, I asked her where she had learned the carol; and she answered,— “My mistress gave it me. There was a picture to it of the Baby on his mother’s knee.” “I never saw it,” I said. “Where did you get the tune?” “I thought it would go with a tune I knew; and I tried it, and it did. But I was not fit to sing to you, sir.” “You must have quite a gift of song, Jane!” I said. “My father and mother can both sing.” Mr Brownrigg was seated on the other side of me, and had apparently listened with some interest. His face was ten degrees less stupid than it usually was. I fancied I saw even a glimmer of some satisfaction in it. I turned to Old Rogers. “Sing us a song, Old Rogers,” I said. “I’m no canary at that, sir; and besides, my singing days be over. I advise you to ask Dr. Duncan there. He CAN sing.” I rose and said to the assembly: “My friends, if I did not think God was pleased to see us enjoying ourselves, I should have no heart for it myself. I am going to ask our dear friend Dr. Duncan to give us a song.—If you please, Dr. Duncan.” “I am very nearly too old,” said the doctor; “but I will try.” His voice was certainly a little feeble; but the song was not much the worse for it. And a more suitable one for all the company he could hardly have pitched upon. “There is a plough that has no share, But a coulter that parteth keen and fair. But the furrows they rise To a terrible size, Or ever the plough hath touch’d them there. ’Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake: The horses are fierce; but the plough will break. “And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear, Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear. Down it drops plumb, Where no spring times come; And here there needeth no harrowing gear: Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf Will cover this naked ground of grief. “But a harvest-day will come at last When the watery winter all is past; The waves so gray Will be shorn away By the angels’ sickles keen and fast; And the buried harvest of the sea Stored in the barns of eternity.” Genuine applause followed the good doctor’s song. I turned to Miss Boulderstone, from whom I had borrowed a piano, and asked her to play a country dance for us. But first I said—not getting up on a chair this time:— “Some people think it is not proper for a clergyman to dance. I mean to assert my freedom from any such law. If our Lord chose to represent, in His parable of the Prodigal Son, the joy in Heaven over a repentant sinner by the figure of ‘music and dancing,’ I will hearken to Him rather than to men, be they as good as they may.” For I had long thought that the way to make indifferent things bad, was for good people not to do them.