Duet.  But how much longer, and longer, and longer,
O how much longer shall the waiting last? 
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past.

[Applause.

Mrs. S. (aside). O she’s a pretty maid, and sings so small
And high, ’tis like a flute.  And she must blush
Till all her face is roses newly blown. 
How folks do clap.  She knows not where to look. 
There now she’s off; he standing like a man To face them.

Mrs. G. (aside). Makes his bow, and after her; But what’s the good of clapping when they’re gone?

Mrs. T. (aside). Why ’tis a London fashion as I’m told, And means they’d have ’em back to sing again.

Mrs. J. (aside). Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire, Sits pleased and ’shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat; And Parson bustles out.  Clap on, clap on.  Coming?  Not she!  There comes her sweetheart though.

Vicar presents the young man again.

SONG.

I.

Rain clouds flew beyond the fell,
  No more did thunders lower,
Patter, patter, on the beck
  Dropt a clearing shower. 
Eddying floats of creamy foam
  Flecked the waters brown,
As we rode up to cross the ford,
  Rode up from yonder town. 
    Waiting on the weather,
    She and I together,
    Waiting on the weather,
      Till the flood went down.

II.

The sun came out, the wet leaf shone,
  Dripped the wild wood vine. 
Betide me well, betide me woe,
  That hour’s for ever mine. 
With thee Mary, with thee Mary,
  Full oft I pace again,
Asleep, awake, up yonder glen,
  And hold thy bridle rein. 
    Waiting on the weather,
    Thou and I together,
    Waiting on the weather,
      Till the flood shall wane.

III.

And who, though hope did come to nought,
  Would memory give away? 
I lighted down, she leaned full low,
  Nor chid that hour’s delay. 
With thee Mary, with thee Mary,
  Methought my life to crown,
But we ride up, but we ride up,
  No more from yonder town. 
    Waiting on the weather,
    Thou and I together,
    Waiting on the weather,
      Till the flood go down.

Mrs. J. (aside). Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam? 
I ask you, neighbours, if’t be not his turn. 
An honest man, and ever pays his score;
Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat,
And strangers sing before him; ’t is a shame!

  Mrs. S. (aside). Ay, but his daughter—­

Mrs. J. (aside). Why, the maid’s a maid One would not set to guide the chant in church, But when she sings to earn her father’s bread, The mildest mother’s son may cry ‘Amen.’