Part 3

"Her love arrived at dusk, walking by owl-light,
carrying a bag,
from which he took a mattock, shovel, knife.
He worked with a will, beside the thornbush,
beneath the oaken tree,
he whistled gently, and he sang, as he dug her grave,
that old song...
Shall I sing it for you, now, good folk?"

She pauses, and as a one we clap and we shout,
or almost like one.
My intended, her hair so dark, her cheeks so pink,
her lips so red,
seems distracted.

The fair girl (Who is she? A guest of the inn, I stumble)
sings:

"A fox went out on a shiny night
And he begged for the moon to give him light
For he'd many miles to go that night
Before he reach his den

His den
His den

He'd many miles to go that night,
before he reach his den"