THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID HE. I HAVE a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the moon By a love-lorn loon, Who fled from the mocking throng, O! It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with the ring Of the song maids sing Who love with a love life-long, O! It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! HE. I have a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the knell Of a churchyard bell, And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O! It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scorn At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with a sigh And a tear in the eye, For it tells of a righted wrong, O! It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay, Who turned on her heel and tripped away From the peacock popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scorn At the humble heart that he did not prize; And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes, For the love of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! BOTH. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more. For he lived in the love of a ladye! THE SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR