“Malvoisie, thou oaf?” said another; “and of a delicacy many degrees above thy bumpkin palate. Leave profaning it, therefore, and to thy refrain without more ado.”
“Most unctuous sir,” replied Hubert, “in demanding me this favour, you seem forgetful that the juice of Pleasure is sweeter than the milk of Human Kindness. I’ll not sing to give thee an opportunity to outnumber me in thy cups.”
And he filled and instantly emptied another sound bumper of the Malvoisie, lurching slightly as he did so. “Health!” he added, preparing to swallow the next.
“A murrain on such pagan thirst!” exclaimed he who had been toasted, snatching the cup away. “Art thou altogether unslakable? Is thy belly a lime-kiln? Nay, shalt taste not a single drop more, Hubert, till we have a stave. Come, tune up, man!”
“Give me but leave to hold the empty vessel, then,” the singer pleaded, falling on one knee in mock supplication.
“Accorded, thou sot!” laughed the other. “Carol away, now!”
They fell into silence, each replenishing his drinking-horn. The snow beat soft against the window, and from outside, far above them, sounded the melancholy note of the bell ringing in the hour for meditation.
So Hubert began:
When the sable veil of night
Over hill and glen is spread,
The yeoman bolts his door in fright,
And he quakes within his bed.
Far away on his ear
There strikes a sound of dread:
Something comes! it is here!
It is passed with awful tread.
There’s a flash of unholy flame;
There is smoke hangs hot in the air:
’Twas the Dragon of Wantley came:
Beware of him, beware!
But we beside the fire
Sit close to the steaming bowl;
We pile the logs up higher,
And loud our voices roll.