"'Then take my bottle, thou palmer bold,
My venison pasty too.
I'll fast and pray, and hair-shirt wear,
As a pious monk should do.'"
The strange singer affected to be totally oblivious of the approach of the Norman, for he accompanied his song by a vigorous twirling of his quarterstaff, ever and anon flinging it into the air and catching it again. So he kept trudging along all the while, as merrily as a cricket. He was apparently greatly startled when the Norman accosted him in the following unceremonious fashion:—
"Hilloa, old weazen-face! you appear to be in a wonderfully merry mood this morning. What is't makes you wag your tail at such a rate this morning, eh?"
"I give you good morning, fair sir. My obedience to your honour. Give me a moment; you quite startle me. What was your honour saying to me?"
"What is it makes you so merry, pray?"
"Why, it is better to be merry than sad; and, begging your pardon for being so bold, but I have that about me would make a man merry if he had a foot in the grave."
"Oh, aye, that is it makes you so merry, old bogskipper, is it? I thought you were going sweethearting."
"Marry, no! Did you ever see as old a dog as I am amuse himself by catching his tail. Mark me, I have in my wallet good barley-bread, and a stout collop of venison; and in my case I have a stiff supply of old Flemish wine," said he, tapping a huge leathern bottle he carried. "So I will be merry while it lasts, anyhow."
"I warrant, too, you have had that snout of yours to the neck of that bottle pretty frequently, old fellow, eh?"
"Thou art in error, friend; grossly in error. Such words are a grave reflection upon my character for sobriety. But it is only fair to say that I have smelt at it occasionally as I came along; but I never drink except I'm thirsty, begging your pardon, fair sir—only when I'm thirsty."