“Oho!” sighed Ranulph, doleful of visage. “Aha, good bawcocks, here come I, and these my fellows, for love o' thee, good Fool, thy quips, thy quirks, thy songs and antics capersome. For troth I'm a merry dog, I—a wanton wag, a bully boy and jovial, though woeful o' look!”
“Wherefore woeful!”
“For that I am not joyous, good Motley. Look 'ee—here's me born with a rare, merry heart, but sad and sober of head! Here's a heart bubbling with kindliness and soft and tender as sucking lamb, wedded to head and face full o' gloom! Here's laughter within me and woe without me, so am I ever at odds with myself—and there's my sorrow. Regarding the which same I will now chaunt ye song I made on myself; 'twas meant for merry song and blithe, but of itself turned mournful song anon as ye shall hear.”
So saying, Ranulph o' the Axe threw back grim head and sang gruff, albeit plaintive, thus:
“O! merry I am and right merry I'll be,
Ho-ho for block, gibbet and rack—oho!
To hang or behead ye there's none like to me,
For I'm headsman, tormentor, and hangman, all three,
And never for work do I lack—oho!
“I live but to torture since torment's my trade,
But my torment well meant is, I trow;
If I hang or behead ye, it can't be gainsaid,
Though my head for the head of a headsman was made,
Still I'm all loving-kindness below.
“But if ever I strive merry story to tell,
Full of japeful and humorsome graces,
'T is as though I were tolling a funeral bell
As if dismally, dolefully tolling a knell,
So solemn and sad grow all faces.
“I hang, burn and torture the best that I may,
Ho pincers and thumbscrews and rack—oho!
And all heads I cut off in a headsmanlike way;
So I'll hang, burn and torment 'till cometh the day
That my kind heart within me shall crack—oho!
Well-a-wey! Well-a-wey!
Woe is me for the day
That my poor heart inside me shall crack! Oho!
“So there's my song! 'T is dull song and, striving to be merry song, is sad song, yet might be worse song, for I have heard a worse song, ere now—but 't is poor song. So come, Fool, do thou sing us merry song to cheer us 'gainst my sad song.”
“Why truly, Sir Headsman,” said Jocelyn, “here be songs a-many, yet if thou 'rt for songs, songs will we sing thee, each and every of us. But first, behold here is money shall buy us wine in plenty that we may grow merry withal in very sooth.”
“Oho!” cried Ranulph. “Spoken like a noble Motley, a fair, sweet Fool! Go thou, Bertram, obey this lord-like Fool—bring wine, good wine and much, and haste thee, for night draweth on and at cock-crow I must away.”
“Aye,” nodded Jocelyn, “in the matter of one—Robin?”
“Verily, Fool. A cheery soul is Robin, though an outlaw, and well beloved in Canalise. So is he to hang at cock-crow lest folk make disturbance.”