JAMES. Fanny be the naäme i' the song, but I swopt it fur _she_. [_Pointing to_ SALLY. SALLY. Let ma aloän afoor foälk, wilt tha? 1ST HAYMAKER. Ye shall sing that ageän to-night, fur owd Dobson'll gi'e us a bit o' supper. SALLY. I weänt goä to owd Dobson; he wur rude to me i' tha haäyfield, and he'll be rude to me ageän to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grass down and wants a hand, and I'll goä to him. 1ST HAYMAKER. Owd Steer gi'es nubbut cowd tea to '_is_ men, and owd Dobson gi'es beer. SALLY. But I'd like owd Steer's cowd tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye. [Going. JAMES. Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. SALLY. I tell'd tha to let ma aloän! JAMES. Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the haäycock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloän if I would, Sally. [Offering to kiss her. SALLY. Git along wi' ye, do! [_Exit_. [_All laugh; exeunt singing_. 'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy, Till the end o' the daä'y An' the last loäd hoäm.' _Enter_ HAROLD. HAROLD. Not Harold! 'Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!' Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved. I told her I should hear her from the grave. Ay! yonder is her casement. I remember Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat Thro' every sensual course of that full feast That leaves but emptiness. _Song_. 'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy, To the end o' the daä'y An' the last loäd hoäm.' HAROLD. Poor Eva! O my God, if man be only A willy-nilly current of sensations-- Reaction needs must follow revel--yet-- Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny? Remorse then is a part of Destiny, Nature a liar, making us feel guilty Of her own faults. My grandfather--of him They say, that women-- O this mortal house, Which we are born into, is haunted by The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men; And these take flesh again with our own flesh, And bring us to confusion. He was only A poor philosopher who call'd the mind Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa. There, there, is written in invisible inks 'Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, Cowardice, Murder'--and the heat and fire Of life will bring them out, and black enough, So the child grow to manhood: better death With our first wail than life-- Song (further off). 'Till the end o' the daäy An' the last loäd hoäm, Load hoäm.'