“Why don’t ye sing, knave, to the tune of the spigot?”
“My gullet’s dry, Master Constable,” stupidly explained his companion, as he too buried his face in the ale.
“Odsbud, thou knowest not the art, thou clod,” retorted the constable, wisely.
“Nay; I can sing as well as any man,” answered Buzzard, indignantly, “an I know when to go up and when to come down.” He pointed stupidly, contrary to the phrase, first to the floor and then to the ceiling.
The landlord chuckled merrily, imitating him. “When to go up and when to come down!” he repeated with the same idiotic drawl and contradictory gesture.
“Go to, simple,” replied Swallow, with tremendous condescension of manner. “Thy mother gave thee a gullet but no ear. Pass the schnapps.”
He arose and staggered to the table.
“Good Master Constable, how singest thou?” sheepishly inquired Buzzard, as he filled Swallow’s tankard for the twentieth time.
“Marry, by main force, thou jack-pudding; how else?” demanded Swallow, pompously. He reseated himself with much effort astride the cask. “Oh, bury me here,” he continued, looking into the foaming mug, and then buried his face deep in the ale.
His companions were well pleased with the toast; for each repeated it after him, each in his turn emphasizing the “me” and the “here”–“Oh, bury me here!” “Oh, bury me here!”–Buzzard in a voice many tones deeper than that of Swallow and the landlord in a voice many tones deeper than that of Buzzard. Indeed, the guttural tones of the landlord bespoke the grave-yard.