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 Yea, I’ll consent, she reply’d, if you’ll promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. No, by heaven, I exclaim’d, may I perish. If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.

Stay, traveller, tarry here tonight. The rain still beats, the wind is loud, The moon too has withdrawn her light, And gone to sleep behind a cloud. ’Tis seven long miles across the moor; And should you from our cottage stray. You’ll meet, I fear, no friendly door, Nor soul to tell the ready way.

Come, dearest Kate, the meal prepare, This stranger shall partake our best; A cake and rasher be his fare, With ale that makes the weary blest. Approach the hearth, there take a place; And till the hour of rest draws nigh, Of Robin Hood, and Chevy Chace, We’ll sing, then to our pallets hie.

Had I the means, I’d use you well;