I remember, Sister, when I would run a mile to hear that song, though my father flogged me for it in the morning. 'Tis the best song ever written.' He went on singing in a kind of whisper-- 'We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys-- Robin--poor Robin! he is dead!--was a famous hand at singing it; but Humphrey found the words too rustical. Humphrey--who is now dead, too!--was ever for fine words, like Mr. Boscorel. 'We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl-- 'I think I see him now--poor Robin! Well; he is no more. He used to laugh in all our faces while he sang it:-- 'We'll drink it out o' the river, my boys. Here's a health to the barley-mow! The river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half- Hogshead, the anker, the half-anker, the gallon, the Pottle, the quart, the pint, the half-pint, the quarter- Pint, the nipperkin, the jolly brown bowl, my boys, Here's a health to the barley-mow!' He trolled out the song in a melodious whisper. Oh! Barnaby, how didst thou love good companionship with singing and drinking! ''Twill be lonely for thee, Sister, at Bradford when thou dost return; Sir Christopher, I take it, will not long hold up his head, and Madam will pine away for the loss of Robin, and mother looks as if she would follow after, so white and wan is she. If she would speak or complain or cry it would comfort her, poor soul! 'Twas a sad day for her when she married the poor old Dad. Poverty and hard work, and now a cruel end--poor mother!' 'Barnaby, you tear my heart!' 'Nay, Child, 'tis better to talk than to keep silence. Better have your heart torn than be choked with your pain. Thou art like unto a man who hath a wounded leg, and if he doth not consent to have it cut off, though the anguish be sharp, he will presently bleed to death. Say to thyself therefore, plain and clear, "Robin is dead; I have lost my sweetheart."' 'No--no--Barnaby--I cannot say those cruel words! Oh! I cannot say them; I cannot feel that Robin is truly dead!' 'Put the case that he is living. Then he is either a prisoner or he is in hiding. If a prisoner, he is as good as dead; because the Duke's officers and the gentlemen who joined him, they will never forgive--that is quite certain. If I were a prisoner I should feel my neck already tightened. If he is not a prisoner, where is he to hide?--whither betake himself? I can get sailors' duds and go abroad before the mast; and ten to one nobody will find me out, because, d'ye see, I can talk the sailors' language, and I know their manners and customs. But Robin--what is Robin to do, if he is alive? And this, I say, is doubtful. Best say to thyself, "I have lost my sweetheart." So wilt thou all the sooner recover thy cheerfulness.' 'Barnaby, you know not what you say! Alas! if my Robin is dead--if my boy is truly dead--then I ask for nothing more than swift death--speedy death--to join him and be with him!'