In Limekilns we entered a small change-house, which we only knew to be a public by the wand over the door, and bought some bread and cheese from a good-looking lass
that was the servant.
There was besides in the inn, as servant, an Asturian lass
with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one eye and not very sound in the other.
His good-humor made the people laugh also and crowd round his cart closely, shouting uproariously when some buxom lass
submitted to be kissed.
He let them fall, turned a smiling face upon her, and said, as he broke into a good-humoured laugh, 'Ay, Rachael, lass
, awlus a muddle.
"Now," quoth Robin, "will I go too, for fain would I draw a string for the bright eyes of my lass
and a butt of good October brewing." So up he got and took his good stout yew bow and a score or more of broad clothyard arrows, and started off from Locksley Town through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham.
See here now," Bob went on, becoming rapid again, and holding up a scarlet woollen Kerchief with an embroidered wreath in the corner; "here's a thing to make a lass
's mouth water, an' on'y two shillin'--an' why?
"She is right, nevertheless, Rosy, and so are you, for the two things go together, and in helping seven lads you are unconsciously doing much to improve one lass
," said Dr.
Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass
she was--eh, you can't think-- they pretend this young lass
is like her, but that's the way wi' people as don't know what come before 'em.
"Ye're a feeckle, changeable weathercock, lass
," says I.
I remember the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair - it pleased him rarely to see her gentle - and saying, 'Why canst thou not always be a good lass
, Cathy?' And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered, 'Why cannot you always be a good man, father?' But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep.
She sat down in one corner of the room, and began to bewail her hard fate; when on a sudden the door opened, and a droll-looking little man hobbled in, and said, 'Good morrow to you, my good lass
; what are you weeping for?' 'Alas!' said she, 'I must spin this straw into gold, and I know not how.' 'What will you give me,' said the hobgoblin, 'to do it for you?' 'My necklace,' replied the maiden.
Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass
, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,