The sacred pile is reach’d; its chancel trod

The sacred pile is reach’d; its chancel trod; Around the altar, all in sight of God Are reverently kneeling * * * Then they rise, And one, there is, had need to wipe her eyes;— This is that gentle one, who’s made a wife;— Now Lady Mountjoy, for her mortal life!

The ceremony’s o’er; the bells peal out; The villagers, again, raise high a shout. Beneath a tree ’n the centre of the “green,” A fiddle, flute, and a bass-violin, Surrounded by a motley group, are playing That well-adapted tune—“Haste to the wedding.” Lord Arnold beckon’d to the “master man;” Whose hurry overturn’d the liquor-can! His great misfortune soon is set aright, By something pleasing to the fiddler’s sight; For which he bowed: but, quickly turning ’round, He tripp’d, and, falling sideways on the ground, Smash’d in the “belly” of his instrument; The wondering crowd burst out in merriment: Himself, unhurt, beheld the mischief done, And swore, with vengeance, on the “evil-one.” (This self-conceited Jullien of the band, Remember’d long the name of Hollybrand.)

The leader of the band.