to be henceforth monopolised by the stage or the boudoir? Never, so
help me, God!'

The ursine howls of the new-comer seemed to have awakened the spirit
of music in the party.

'Coom, Blackburd, gi' us zong, Blackburd, bo'!' cried a dozen voices
to an impish, dark-eyed gipsy boy, of some thirteen years old.

'Put 'n on taable. Now, then, pipe up!'

'What will 'ee ha'?'

'Mary; gi' us Mary.'

'I shall make a' girls cry,' quoth Blackbird, with a grin.

'Do'n good, too; they likes it: zing away.'

And the boy began, in a broad country twang, which could not
overpower the sad melody of the air, or the rich sweetness of his
flute-like voice,--

'Young Mary walked sadly down through the green clover,
And sighed as she looked at the babe at her breast;
"My roses are faded, my false love a rover,
The green graves they call me, 'Come home to your rest.'"

'Then by rode a soldier in gorgeous arraying,
And "Where is your bride-ring, my fair maid?" he cried;
"I ne'er had a bride-ring, by false man's betraying,
Nor token of love but this babe at my side.

'"Tho' gold could not buy me, sweet words could deceive me;
So faithful and lonely till death I must roam."
"Oh, Mary, sweet Mary, look up and forgive me,
With wealth and with glory your true love comes home;

'"So give me my own babe, those soft arms adorning,
I'll wed you and cherish you, never to stray;
For it's many a dark and a wild cloudy morning,
Turns out by the noon-time a sunshiny day."'

'A bad moral that, sir,' whispered Tregarva.

'Better than none,' answered Lancelot.

'It's well if you are right, sir, for you'll hear no other.'

The keeper spoke truly; in a dozen different songs, more or less
coarsely, but, in general, with a dash of pathetic sentiment, the
same case of lawless love was embodied. It seemed to be their only
notion of the romantic. Now and then there was a poaching song;
then one of the lowest flash London school--filth and all--was
roared in chorus in presence of the women.

'I am afraid that you do not thank me for having brought you to any
place so unfit for a gentleman,' said Tregarva, seeing Lancelot's
sad face.

'Because it is so unfit for a gentleman, therefore I do thank you.
It is right to know what one's own flesh and blood are doing.'

'Hark to that song, sir! that's an old one. I didn't think they'd
get on to singing that.'

The Blackbird was again on the table,