“Ah! good old friend,” the huntsman cried, “since you have called me here,
Get down the pewter pots that we may drink a funeral bier—
For I have ridden hard today to reach the Swan this night,
And what I ask is nothing more than what is only right.”
With that, the host got out of bed and brought two pewters brimmed,
And while below he saw that all the tavern lights were trimmed.
His kinsman, riding up the road, with doctors from afar,
Reined up to watch the lights that burned so brightly in the bar;
While the jolly host with Death alone sat in the room above,
And drank the foaming liquor down, his first and only love.