_Rose and_ } Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own _Lucy._ } Through all changes Fortune may make. _Rose and_ } The base charge of falsehood he never has known; _Lucy._ } This promise he never will break. [_Enter Young Benson._] _Young Benson._ My sister here! Lucy! begone, I command. _Squire._ To your home I restore you again. _Young Benson._ No boon I'll accept from that treacherous hand As the price of my fair sister's fame. _Squire._ To your home! _Young Benson_ [_to Lucy_]. Hence away! _Lucy._ Brother dear, I obey. _Squire._ I restore. _Young Benson._ Hence away! _Young Benson,_ } Let us leave. _Rose, and Lucy._ } _Lucy._ He swears it, dear brother. _Squire._ I swear it. _Young Benson._ Away! _Squire._ I swear it. _Young Benson._ You swear to deceive. _Squire._ Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own Through all changes Fortune may make. _Lucy and_ { Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own _Rose._ { Through all changes Fortune may make. _Young Benson._ Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make. _Squire._ The base charge of falsehood I never have known, This promise I never will break. _Lucy and_ { The base charge of falsehood he never has known, _Rose._ { This promise he never will break. _Young Benson._ The base charge of falsehood he often has known, This promise he surely will break. SQUIRE NORTON'S SONG There's a charm in Spring, when ev'rything Is bursting from the ground; When pleasant show'rs bring forth the flow'rs And all is life around. In summer day, the fragrant hay Most sweetly scents the breeze; And all is still, save murm'ring rill, Or sound of humming bees. Old Autumn comes;--with trusty gun In quest of birds we roam: Unerring aim, we mark the game, And proudly bear it home. A winter's night has its delight, Well warmed to bed we go: A winter's day, we're blithe and gay, Snipe-shooting in the snow. A country life, without the strife And noisy din of town, Is all I need, I take no heed Of splendour or renown. And when I die, oh, let me lie Where trees above me wave; Let wild plants bloom around my tomb, My quiet country grave! YOUNG BENSON'S SONG