They hanged the miller beside his own gate, Hey-down, &c. For drowning the varmer’s daughter, Kate. And I’ll, &c. The sister she fled beyond the seas, Hey-down, &c. And died an old maid among black savageès. And I’ll, &c. So I’ve ended my tale of the West Countree, And they calls it the Barkshire Trage-dèe. And I’ll, &c. “The Barkshire Tragedy, indeed! Now, Doctor, what have you to tell us about this? When did it happen? Who was the lady? Was she drowned in the Thames, the Kennet, or where?” “Oh, I don’t know. All I can say is, she was drowned before my time; for I remember hearing the song when I was a little chap in petticoats. But the story seems a common one. There’s a north-country ballad founded on it, I know, but I don’t remember the name just now.” “‘The Bonny Mill-dams of Binnorie,’ is not it?” said the long scholar. “Aye, that’s the name, I think.” “Well, it’s very odd, for we’ve got the same story, all but the miller, and his daughter as fair as any gilly-flower (why are millers’ daughters always pretty, by the way?), on the Welsh marshes,” said the long scholar. “Then, Sir, I must call on you to sing it. The call is with me at our end of the booth,” said the Doctor. “And, Peter, bring me a little cold gin-and-water, and a pipe. If I must breathe smoke-poison, I may as well make it myself, at any rate.” “Well, singing’s rather more than I bargained for. However, I suppose I mustn’t spoil sport; so here goes.” THE DROWNED LADY. _Qy. another version of the Barkshire Tragedy?_ Oh, it was not a pheasant cock, Nor yet a pheasant hen, But oh it was a lady fair Came swimming down the stream. An ancient harper passing by Found this poor lady’s body, To which his pains he did apply To make a sweet melòdy. To cat-gut dried he her inside, He drew out her back-bone, And made thereof a fiddle sweet All for to play upon. And all her hair so long and fair, That down her back did flow, Oh he did lay it up with care, To string his fiddle bow. And what did he with her fingers Which were so straight and small? Oh, he did cut them into pegs To screw up his fid-dòll. Then forth went he, as it might be, Upon a summer’s day, And met a goodly company, Who asked him in to play. Then from her bones he drew such tones As made their bones to ache, They sounded so like human groans, Their hearts began to quake. They ordered him in ale to swim, For sorrow’s mighty dry, And he to share their wassail fare Essayd right willingly. He laid his fiddle on a shelf In that old manor-hall, It played and sung all by itself, And thus sung this fid-dòll:--