“Percy,” says Jack, “you’ve a pretty pipe in your throat; give me the key, will you? not too high, you rascal, I’m not vainglorious at my music. So, and, so—there,” as Percy does as he is asked.
When all the May is deck’d about With hawthorn bud and blow; When pinkly shows the heather’s tip, And harebells nod a-row—
Lady Betty takes the air, Sing ah fa, la-la-la! With a rush hat on her hair: Sing ah fa, la-la-la!
When all the brown earth thrills to green, When rivers laugh and sing; When lark and thrush cajole and coax, And all the wood’s a-wing— Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
When Corydon most sad, forlorn, With wrinkled hose, distraught, All flouted by his worshiped Fair, Walks forth as one that’s daft, Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
When, at the turn-stile next the park, The sad swain stops to sigh— “No lady ever lived so dear As she for whom I’d die!” Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
When, as the sun walks up the glade, And as the milkmaid hies Across the paddock with her pails, And as the lark doth rise— Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
Cries Betty, flaunting past, “Oh fie! A gallant all unkempt, Such ungenteel and woful sight Kind fortune me exempt!” Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
When speaking thus, the May-breeze blew Her rush hat o’er the stile, And Corydon caught quick the gaze, And swift his sigh turned smile, Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
Thus, when the May is deck’d about With hawthorn bud and blow, Sweet Betty ties her hat-strings fast, A gallant in the bow! Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
’Twas ever thus, dear maids and men, Whene’er ye walk abroad— ’Tis e’er the little breeze that blows Each lady to her lord! Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
Every one joins in the chorus with a hearty good will; all save Her Ladyship. Peggy dares not lift her woman’s voice, lest Escombe at right, or Wootton at her left, shall hear its most unmannish lilt. She mouths the words, though, and listens, as she has many a time before, to Sir Percy’s tones, and wonders if the sentiment is making him think of the Lady Diana.
The Lady Diana, however, is very far from Sir Percy’s imagination. He has been moodily ruminating on the possibilities of Tom Kidde (the most renowned desperado in all England of that day) suddenly bursting upon the party, and leaving a corpse behind him—that of Sir Robin McTart! He has been picturing to himself the profound pleasure it would give him to assist in fetching Sir Robin to the nearest church for decent burial, and the almost hilarious joy that would be his in attending his rival’s body to the grave! These were, according to the strict code, most murderous thoughts, and yet how pleasant, if how altogether unprofitable they were also.