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But this one's very lightly guess'd. You must have often, heretofore, Heard tell one story or another Of that poor fellow here by West Whose head four parsons' learning bore; He went a-wooing to your Mother.

What then?

Conceive,—a girl of gold She sent him to the right-about Promptly, as might have been foretold. And how d'ye think he took the flout? Half mad with grief he wander'd out, Mated at last another bride, A gipsy,—and, before he died, Enrich'd with issue this foul band That sins and starves about the land. Nay, on this parish he conferr'd One bastard imp—as souvenir Of his illustrious career.

Namely—?

The gipsy-urchin Gerd.

[In muffled tones.]

Ah—so!

[Gaily.]

Confess, the riddle's good! His issue in effect derive