_Julia._ I pr'ythee sing it to me, good O'Carrol; For there is something in these artless ditties, Expressive of a simple soul in love, That fills the mind with pleasing melancholy. SONG.--O'CARROL. _Oh! the moment was sad when my love and I parted;_ _Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_ _As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken hearted;_ _Savourna deligh shighan ogh;_ _Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder;_ _Damp was her hand, no marble was colder;_ _I felt that I never again should behold her._ _Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_ _Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love;_ _Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_ _All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you, love;_ _Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_ _Peace was proclaim'd,--escaped from the slaughter,_ _Landed at home--my sweet girl I sought her;_ _But sorrow, alas! to the cold grave had brought her._ _Savourna deligh shighan ogh!_ _Enter JOHN de VIENNE and RIBAUMONT._ _De Vienne._ Nay, nay, my lord! you're welcome. Yet, were I private here, some prudent qualms, Which you well wot, I trow, my noble lord! Might cause me flatly sound that full toned welcome, Which breathes the mellow note of hospitality. Yet, being Governor of Calais here---- But take me with you, Count,--I can discern Your noble virtues; ay, and love them too; Did not a father's care--but let that pass.-- Julia, my girl--the Count of Ribaumont:-- Thank the brave champion of our city. _Julia._ Sir! Tho' one poor simple drop of gratitude, Amid the boisterous tide of general thanks, Can little swell the glory of your enterprise, Accept it freely.--You are welcome, sir. _Rib._ Cold does it seem to me.--'Sdeath! this is ice! Freezing indifference:--down, down, my heart! [_Aside._ I pray you, lady, do not strain your courtesy. If I have reap'd a single grain of favour, From your fair self, and noble father here, I have obtain'd the harvest of my hope. _De Vienne._ Heyday! here's bow, and jut, and cringe, and scrape!-- Count! I have served in battle; witness for me Some curious scars, the soldier's coxcombry, In which he struts, fantastically carved Upon the tough old doublet nature gave him. Let us, then, speak like brothers of the field; Roundly and blunt. Have I your leave, my lord? _Rib._ As freely, sir, as you have ask'd it.