“You shouldn’t laugh, really, Sir, at our west-country sentiment,” said the Doctor, with astounding gravity. “I don’t think I can conscientiously help you to the words, when I know you’ll only be making fun of them at some wine-party. They are meant for malt drinkers, not for wine drinkers.” “Fudge, Doctor. Come, now, give us the words, or I shall have to go over and ask the performer for them.” “I think I can give you them,” said I, looking up from my note-book. “What a thing it is to write shorthand!” said the Doctor, glancing at my hieroglyphics; “we don’t learn that sort of thing down in these parts.” “I wonder we haven’t had more sentimental songs,” said the long scholar; “I suppose there are plenty of love-stories going about?” “Oh yes, plenty,” said the Doctor; “mostly ballads telling how rich young heiresses disdained all good matches, for the sake of a sailor boy with tarry trousers, or a seductive fogger, thereby provoking their cruel match-making parents. For instance:-- “Says the daughter to the mother, “Your art is all in vain, For Dukes and Lords and Earls alike their riches I disdain; I’d rather live a humble life, and my time I would employ Increasing nature’s prospects, with my bonny labouring boy.”” “What on earth can ‘increasing nature’s prospects’ mean?” asked the long scholar. “How can I tell?” said the Doctor, laughing; “I don’t pretend to construe; I only give you the words. But you must allow the moral to be good. It runs:-- “Success to every labouring boy that ploughs and hoes the ground, For when his work is over, his home he will enjoy; So happy is the girl that gets a bonny labouring boy.” “Let’s see,” said the short scholar, “we’ve had specimens of patriotic, legendary, and sentimental ditties; but how about drinking songs? All tuneful nations, since the world began, have sung the praises of good liquor.” “I don’t know that we have many drinking songs,” said the Doctor; “I suppose it takes wine, or spirits at any rate, to make a man write such stuff as ‘the glasses sparkle,’ or ‘a bumper of Burgundy.’ The bucolic muse only gets smallish beer. But we must see what we can do for you.” So the Doctor beckoned to Peter, and sent him off to the lower tables with a pot of beer, the speedy result of which mission was the following song:-- TOVEY’S TAP.--AIR, “_Derry down_.” Owld Tovey once brewed a barrel o’ beer, For he wur a man as lovèd good cheer, And zays he, “I’ll jest ax a veaw o’ my vriends To come and try how the likker spends.”[36] Derry down, &c. There’s long Tom Ockle, he shall be one, And little Jack Smith, who’s as round as a tun, And owld Gaarge Mabbutt, who’s allus a-dry, I’ll warn’d thay’ll make good company. Derry down, &c.