At last he came to his cosy den, Where sat his young ones, nine or ten. Quoth they, "Daddy, you must go there again, For sure, 'tis a lucky town, O!" Town, O! Town, O! Quoth they, "Daddy, &c." 7 The fox and wife without any strife, They cut up the goose without fork or knife, And said 'twas the best they had eat in their life, And the young ones pick'd the bones, O! Bones, O! Bones, O! And said 'twas the best, &c. No. 56 FURZE BLOOM H.F.S. [Music] 1 There's not a cloud a sailing by, That does not hold a shower; There's not a furze-bush on the moor, That doth not put forth flower. About the roots we need not delve, The branches need not prune, The yellow furze will ever flower, And ever love's in tune! When the furze is out of flower, Then love is out of tune. 2 There's not a season of the year, Nor weather hot nor cold, In windy spring, in watery fall, But furze is clad in gold. It blossoms in the falling snow, It blazes bright in June, And love, like it, is always here, And ever opportune. When the furze is out of flower, Then love is out of tune. 3[17] There's not a saucy lad I wot, With light and roguish eye, That doth not love a pretty lass, And kiss her on the sly, There's not a maiden in the shire From Hartland Point to Brent, In velvet, or in cotton gown, That will his love resent. When the furze is out of flower, Then love is out of tune. 4 Beside the fire with toasted crabs, We sit and love is there, In merry spring, with apple flowers, It flutters in the air. At harvest when we toss the sheaves, Then Love with them is toss't. At fall when nipp'd and sere the leaves, Unnipp't is Love by frost. When the furze is out of flower, Then love is out of tune. [Footnote 17: May be omitted in singing.] No. 57 THE OXEN PLOUGHING H.F.S. [Music] 1 Prithee lend your jocund voices, For to listen we're agreed: Come sing of songs the choicest, Of the life the ploughboys lead. There are none that live so merry As the ploughboy does in Spring When he hears the sweet birds whistle And the nightingales to sing. With my Hump-a-long! Jump-a-long! Here drives my lad along! Pretty, Sparkle, Berry Good-luck, Speedwell, Cherry! We are the lads that can follow the plough. 2 For it's, O my little ploughboy Come awaken in the morn, When the cock upon the dunghill Is a-blowing of his horn. Soon the sun above Brown Willy,[18] With his golden face will show; Therefore hasten to the linney Yoke the oxen to the plough. With my Hump-a-long! &c. 3