“Now then,” he said, “Psalm the Hundred-and-Ninth, to the tune of Wiltshire:  verses ten to fifteen.  I gi’e ye the words: 

“His seed shall orphans be, his wife
A widow plunged in grief;
His vagrant children beg their bread
Where none can give relief.

His ill-got riches shall be made
To usurers a prey;
The fruit of all his toil shall be
By strangers borne away.

None shall be found that to his wants
Their mercy will extend,
Or to his helpless orphan seed
The least assistance lend.

A swift destruction soon shall seize
On his unhappy race;
And the next age his hated name
Shall utterly deface.”

“I know the Psa’am—­I know the Psa’am!” said the leader hastily; “but I would as lief not sing it.  ’Twasn’t made for singing.  We chose it once when the gipsy stole the pa’son’s mare, thinking to please him, but pa’son were quite upset.  Whatever Servant David were thinking about when he made a Psalm that nobody can sing without disgracing himself, I can’t fathom!  Now then, the Fourth Psalm, to Samuel Wakely’s tune, as improved by me.”

“’Od seize your sauce—­I tell ye to sing the Hundred-and-Ninth to Wiltshire, and sing it you shall!” roared Henchard.  “Not a single one of all the droning crew of ye goes out of this room till that Psalm is sung!” He slipped off the table, seized the poker, and going to the door placed his back against it.  “Now then, go ahead, if you don’t wish to have your cust pates broke!”

“Don’t ’ee, don’t’ee take on so!—­As ’tis the Sabbath-day, and ’tis Servant David’s words and not ours, perhaps we don’t mind for once, hey?” said one of the terrified choir, looking round upon the rest.  So the instruments were tuned and the comminatory verses sung.

“Thank ye, thank ye,” said Henchard in a softened voice, his eyes growing downcast, and his manner that of a man much moved by the strains.  “Don’t you blame David,” he went on in low tones, shaking his head without raising his eyes.  “He knew what he was about when he wrote that!...  If I could afford it, be hanged if I wouldn’t keep a church choir at my own expense to play and sing to me at these low, dark times of my life.  But the bitter thing is, that when I was rich I didn’t need what I could have, and now I be poor I can’t have what I need!”

While they paused, Lucetta and Farfrae passed again, this time homeward, it being their custom to take, like others, a short walk out on the highway and back, between church and tea-time.  “There’s the man we’ve been singing about,” said Henchard.

The players and singers turned their heads and saw his meaning.  “Heaven forbid!” said the bass-player.

“’Tis the man,” repeated Henchard doggedly.

“Then if I’d known,” said the performer on the clarionet solemnly, “that ’twas meant for a living man, nothing should have drawn out of my wynd-pipe the breath for that Psalm, so help me!