“Pipe and play, dear heart,” sang he,
      “I must go, yet pipe and play;
    Soon I’ll come and ask of thee
      For an answer yea or nay;”
    And I waited till the flocks
      Panted in yon waters stilly,
    And the corn stood in the shocks: 
      O love my Willie!

    I thought first when thou didst come
      I would wear the ring for thee,
    But the year told out its sum,
      Ere again thou sat’st by me;
    Thou hadst nought to ask that day
      By kingcup and daffodilly;
    I said neither yea nor nay: 
      O love my Willie!

Enter GEORGE.

George.  Well, mother, ’tis a fortnight now, or more, Since I set eyes on you.

M. Ay, George, my dear, I reckon you’ve been busy:  so have we.

  G. And how does father?

M. He gets through his work.  But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear; He’s not so young, you know, by twenty years As I am—­not so young by twenty years, And I’m past sixty.

G. Yet he’s hale and stout, And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe; And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, And a pride, too.

M. And well he may, my dear.

G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm,
He’s such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, He almost wears our lives out with his noise Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep.  What! you young villain, would you clench your fist In father’s curls? a dusty father, sure, And you’re as clean as wax. 
Ay, you may laugh;
But if you live a seven years more or so, These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched With climbing after nest-eggs.  They’ll go down As many rat-holes as are round the mere; And you’ll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, As your father did afore you, and you’ll wade After young water-birds; and you’ll get bogged Setting of eel-traps, and you’ll spoil your clothes, And come home torn and dripping:  then, you know, You’ll feel the stick—­you’ll feel the stick, my lad!

Enter FRANCES.

F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe—­ How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven Before the time you tell of.

M. Look at him:  So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes!  He thrives, my dear.

F. Yes, that he does, thank God My children are all strong.

M. ’Tis much to say; Sick children fret their mother’s hearts to shreds, And do no credit to their keep nor care.  Where is your little lass?

F. Your daughter came And begged her of us for a week or so.