Mess Parson Hogg shall now maintain, The burden of my song, Sir, A single life, perforce he led, Of constitution strong, Sir. Sing, tally-ho! sing, tally-ho! Sing, tally-ho! why zounds, Sir, He mounts his mare, to hunt the hare, Sing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir. 2 And every day he goes to Mass, He first draws on the boot, Sir, That should the beagles chance to pass, He might join in pursuit, Sir! Sing tally-ho! &c. 3 That Parson little loveth prayer, And Pater, night and morn, Sir, For bell and book, hath little care But dearly loves the horn, Sir. Sing tally-ho! &c. 4 S. Stephen's Day, this holy man He went a pair to wed, Sir, When as the Service he began Puss by the Church-yard sped, Sir. Sing tally-ho! &c. 5 He shut his book, Come on, he said, I'll pray and bless no more, Sir, He drew his surplice o'er his head And started for the door, Sir Sing tally-ho! &c. 6 In pulpit Parson Hogg was strong, He preached without a book, Sir, And to the point, and never long, And this the text he took, Sir, "O tally-ho! O tally-ho! Dearly beloved--zounds, Sir I mount my mare to hunt the hare, Singing tally-ho! the hounds, Sir!" No. 6 "COLD BLOWS THE WIND, SWEET-HEART" C.J.S. [Music] 1 "Cold blows the wind of night, sweet-heart, Cold are the drops of rain; The very first love that ever I had, In green-wood he was slain. 2 "I'll do as much for my true-love As any fair maiden may; I'll sit and mourn upon his grave A twelvemonth and a day." 3 A twelvemonth and a day being up, The ghost began to speak; "Why sit you here by my grave-side From dusk till dawning break?" 4 "O think upon the garden, love, Where you and I did walk. The fairest flower that blossomed there Is withered on its stalk." 5 "What is it that you want of me, And will not let me sleep? Your salten tears they trickle down My winding sheet to steep." 6 "Oh I will now redeem the pledge The pledge that once I gave; A kiss from off thy lily white lips Is all of you I crave." 7 "Cold are my lips in death, sweet-heart, My breath is earthy strong. If you do touch my clay-cold lips, Your time will not be long." 8 Then through the mould he heaved his head, And through the herbage green. There fell a frosted bramble leaf, It came their lips between. 9 "Now if you were not true in word, As now I know you be, I'd tear you as the withered leaves, Are torn from off the tree. 10 "And well for you that bramble-leaf Betwixt our lips was flung. The living to the living hold, Dead to the dead belong." No. 7 THE SPRIG OF THYME C.J.S. [Music] 1