"Come, now tell me, Clarabella, How that wondrous thing befell, Why you took that sorry fellow, Leaving me who loved you well? It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage, And cost me many a pang of pain; Indeed, when I heard of your marriage, I vowed I ne'er would love again." "Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic, And so the reason you shall hear: Th' affair was one of arithmetic-- A matter of so much a year. His father left five thousand good Of pounds per annum, as you know, And you possessed, I understood, Of yearly thousands only two." "Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid, Display so much stupid-ity As not to know--the thing was lucid-- From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?" "But not too late," cried Clarabella: "My husband dear has gone to heaven; He left the five to me, good fellow! And five and two, you know, make seven." I laughed and bowed to Clarabella, And quickly homewards bent my way, And there became a rustic fellow, And donned a suit of hodden-grey. And then I hired me to a farmer, Concealing every sign of pelf, One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer, Who might love me for myself. I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda, And tho' she loved another swain (I had observed them through the window), I was resolved her love to gain Then I would be a lucky fellow, Assured one loved me for my merit, And not, like widowed Clarabella, For the lucre _I_ inherit. At length I boldly purposed marriage, And found Lucinda at my call, And soon thereafter in my carriage I drove my wife to Border Hall. Well! she wondered at the mansion, And all the grandeur that was there, The servants bowing all attention To the lady of their squire. I had a call from Clarabella, Who said my choice was very good; But though her speech was calm and mellow, I thought her in an envious mood. Indeed I had some small suspicion She had avenged a woman's grudge, And had conveyed my true condition To the ears of Farmer Hodge. Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger, Who knew me spite of my changed dress. "Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager There is a something thee doan't guess; Lucinda's father knew by letter Thee wert a squoire in low disguise, And she, altho' _she loiked me better_, Agreed to take the richer prize." XXII. THE SONG OF ROSALIE. Row on! row on! to flowing Tay, Thou Dighty, who art dear to me; For here upon thy flowery brae I parted last frae Rosalie. Her hair, so rich in gowden hue, Ilk plait was like a gowden string, Her eyne were like the bonnie blue That shines upon the halcyon's wing. There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and silent tomb.