The third, he was a little tailor boy,
Three big rogues together.”
“Can’t you join in the chorus, children?” interrupted the Archbishop. “Come! the last two lines of every verse.”
“The third, he was a little tailor boy,
Three big rogues together.”
Our voices rose in a quavering accompaniment to his mellifluous notes. We were petrified; but, even in a state of petrification, we did as we were bidden.
“The miller, he stole corn,
The weaver, he stole yarn,
And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth,
To keep these three rogues warm.”