a fire as you know, my dear, the
tongue is a fire.

VIII.
And the parson made it his text that week, and he
said likewise,
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of
lies,
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought
with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to
fight.

IX.
And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week
and a day;
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle
of May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had
been!
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself
clean.

X.
And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an
evening late
I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the
road at the gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the
dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt
the nightingale.

XI.
All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of
the farm,
Willy,--he did n't see me,--and Jenny hung on his
arm.
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew
how;
Ah, there's no fool like the old one--it makes me
angry now.

XII.
Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that
he meant;
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and
went.
And I said, 'Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all
be the same,
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good
name.'

XIII.
And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet
moonshine:
Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name
is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well
of ill;
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy
still.'

XIV.
'Marry you, Willy!' said I, 'but I needs must speak
my mind,
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard
and unkind.'
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd,
'No, love, no;'
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years
ago.

XV.
So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac
gown;
And th