The Mayor.
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.
Brand.
What then?
The Mayor.
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.
Brand.
Namely—?
The Mayor.
The gipsy-urchin Gerd.
Brand.
[In muffled tones.]
Ah—so!
The Mayor.
[Gaily.]
Confess, the riddle's good!
His issue in effect derive
