Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/96



There's one thing it grieves me uncommon to say— To the gloom of his path he'd provided no ray; As a palpable "Hedge" to a dull country life He should (so the ladies said) take him a wife;
 * And the truth shall be known,
 * For the fault was his own,
 * That he'd no "flesh of his flesh,"
 * Or "bone of his bone."

For mothers were constantly bringing their daughters, Who "painted on velvet," and "played," from all quarters; But, with grief be it said, that to happiness dead, He hinted "at present" he shouldn't get wed:
 * He don't know what to do,
 * And the devils so blue
 * Come to visit him oft,
 * And torment him a few.

At last a near neighbour, a fox hunting squire, Who Maxwell's "pale brandy" and weed did admire, Said he'd send him a horse to Spottleback Gorse, And Maxwell accepted his offer, of course;
 * He look'd quite the "cheese,"
 * From his "heel" to his "nob,"
 * As he rode to the "meet"
 * On his bonesetting cob.

But it's one thing to meet them, another to go, As poor Maxwell's exploits in the sequel will show; They are thrown into "covert," they have found, and are gone; "Hark! forward! they're running, and Maxwell makes one;