“There sits the squire, my worthy sire, A-drinking hisself drunk, And so did he, ah woe is me! The day my body sunk. “There sits my mother, half asleep, A-taking of her ease, Her mind is deep, if one might peep, In her preserves and keys. “There sits my sister, cruel Joan, Who last week drownded me; And there’s my love, with heart of stone, Sits making love to she. “There sits the Crowner, Uncle Joe, Which comforteth poor me; He’ll hold his Crowner’s quest, I know, To get his Crowner’s fee.” Now when this fiddle thus had spoke It fell upon the floor, And into little pieces broke, No word spoke never more. “Thank you, Sir,” said the Doctor; “that’s a queer tune though. I don’t know that I ever heard one at all like it. But I shouldn’t say all that song was old now.” “Well, I believe you’re right. But I can say, as you said of the Barkshire Tragedy, it’s all older than my time, for I remember my father singing it just as I’ve sung it to you as long as I can remember any thing.” “And what did he say of it?” “Well, he said that five out of the first six verses were very old indeed. He had heard them often when he was a child, and always the same words. The rest was all patch-work, he said, by different hands, and he hardly knew which were the old lines, and which new.” “I say,” remarked the short scholar, “the Doctor don’t seem to be a bad hand at making the smoke-poison.” The Doctor blew out a long white cloud, and was about to reply, when a brawny young carter, at a distant table, took his pipe from his lips, and, in answer to the urgings of his neighbours, trolled out the following little piece of sentiment:-- CUPID’S GARDEN. As I wur in Cu-bit’s gardin Not mwoar nor haf an hour, ’Twur ther I zeed two may-dens Zittin under Cu-bit’s bower, A-gatherin of sweet jassa-mine, The lilly and the rose. These be the fairest flowers As in the gardin grows. I vondly stepped to one o’ them, These words to her I zays, “Be you engaged to arra young man, Come tell to me, I prays.” “I beant engaged to narra young man, I solemnly declare; I aims to live a may-den, And still the lau-rel wear.” Zays I, “My stars and gar-ters! This here’s a pretty go, Vor a vine young mayd as never wos To sar’ all mankind zo.” But the t’other young may-den looked sly at me, And vrom her zeat she risn, Zays she, “Let thee and I go our own waay, And we’ll let she go shis’n.” “Oh, I say, that beats all!” said the short scholar, with a shout of laughter. “I must have the words somehow. Let’s see, how did he begin? something about Cubit. What a rum notion to call Cupid, Cubit. What was it, Doctor?”