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MIDI Symbol

JOAN opens the door, and LAINE stumbles in, carrying a broken pitcher. LAINE is a poorly-clad slip of a girl with a little, wan, pinched face, framed in a tightly fitting cap. One of her shoulders is hunched, and she hobbles with the aid of a crutch. SIMON and JOAN bear her tenderly to a seat as a mob of lads and girls, in holiday attire, appear in the alley. A few follow JACQUELINE into the room, others thrust their heads in at the window. A youth commences to ply SIMON's loom vigorously, while PEPPINa hideous, big-headed dwarfswarms up the steps leading to the loft, and sits there surveying the scene.

JACQUELINEa ragged young woman with a towzled head and bright, mischievous eyesdoes her best to keep the crowd at bay.

WOMEN. MEN.
Hobble, hobble, now we've caught her,
Scuttling home-ward
like a rat, Hobble, hobble,
Limping Laine, the weaver's daughter! now we've caught her, Scuttling home-ward
By St. Joseph, look at that! like a rat, Limping Laine,
Hobble, hobble, the weaver's daughter!
now we've caught her, By St. Joseph,
Scuttling home-ward look at that!
like a rat, By St. Jo-
seph, look
By St. Jo- at that!
seph, look
at that! By St. Jo-
seph, look
look at that! at that!
Look at that! look at that! Look at that! look at that!
Look at that! look at that! Look at that! look at that!

JOAN. Aye, 'tis Laine, our crippled daughter! By St. Joseph, look at that!
WOMEN. Saints above us, what a couple!
MEN.   Sooth he's fashioned like a sickle,
WOMEN. All his back is bent and double, —
MEN.   and his legs are not a pair!

WOMEN. MEN.
Lo! her skin is
made of leather that has Lo! her skin is made of
soaked too long in pickle, leather that has soaked too
And her eyes are hung in long in pickle, And her
cobwebs! see, there's mildew in her hair! eyes are hung in cobwebs! see, there's mil-
Lo! her skin is made of leather that has dew in her hair! Lo! her skin is made of
soaked too long in pickle, leather that has soaked too
And her eyes are hung in cobwebs! long in pickle, And her eyes are
see, there's mildew in her hair! hung in cobwebs! see, there's mil-
dew in her hair!

SIMON. Holy Mother! have a care!
CHORUS.   That's her father! And the other?
That's her mother!
What a pair!
SIMON. Holy Mother! would ye dare? would ye dare? would ye dare?
Holy Mother! would ye dare?
CHORUS. Nay, sir Weaver, spare your cudgel, and when next your crooked
      daughter
    Limps and hobble o'er the cobbles, with her body turned askew,
  Patch and mend her ere ye send her to the gossips' well for water,
    Lest we take her crutch and rend her! Holy Mother, what a crew!
SIMON. Carrion kites, what would ye do?

SIMON CHORUS
Patch and mend her
Carrion kites, ere you send
her to the
what would ye do? gossip's well for wa-
ter, Holy Mother,
Carrrion kites,
what a crew!
what would ye do?
Holy Mother,
Carrion kites,
what a crew!
what would ye do?
what a pair!
what would ye do?
ye carrion kites, what would ye do?

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