_Mrs. G_. Who be these coming to the front to sing? _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said, And there was much ado to make her sing; She would, and would not; and he wanted her, And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. 'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. _Mrs. G. (aside)._ I did not know the maid, so fair she looks. _Mrs. J. (aside)._ He's a right proper man she has at last; Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) To court her after work hours, that he doth, Not like her other--why, he'd let his work Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. Her father sent him to the right-about. 'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you, Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for. The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man; The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.' _Vicar presents a young man and a girl._ DUET. _She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire, And yon red logs glow, Honey, whisper by the fire, Whisper, honey low. _He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill, Stiff's yon weary loam; Lacks the work o' my goodwill, Fain I'd take thee home. O how much longer, and longer, and longer, An' how much longer shall the waiting last? Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. _She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry, Bide awhile, let be. _He_. Take my wage then, lay it by, Till 't come back with thee. The red money, the white money, Both to thee I bring-- _She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey? _He_. Honey, ay, the ring. _Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer, O how much longer shall the waiting last? Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past. [_Applause._ _Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush Till all her face is roses newly blown. How folks do clap. She knows not where to look. There now she's off; he standing like a man To face them. _Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her; But what's the good of clapping when they're gone? _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told, And means they'd have 'em back to sing again. _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire, Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat; And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though. _Vicar presents the young man again_. SONG. I.