"You haven't twigged it properly, Robin," explained the Friar. "Read on, and you'll see what it means."
"Three blasts upon his horn he blew,
Each mounting high and higher,
Come forth, my Merry Men, quoth he,
And hear me strike the liar.'
I understand about the horn now, Friar. But who are you making the liar?"
"Not me, I hope," put in Little John. "If so, I'll knock your head off, you bounder."
Friar Tuck took a hasty peep at the manuscript. "Excuse me a moment," he said. "Did I write 'liar' instead of 'lyre'? Slip of the pen. Alter it, Robin."
"No, I'll let it stand; it's funnier," said Robin. "Get your ears back for the next spasm, friends:—
"'And withal Robin danced like fun,
And cried, Hey diddle, diddle,
While Little John his cornet blew
And David scraped his fiddle.'
Here, hold on a bit, Friar. Fiddles they may have had in Robin's time—I'm not sure of it—but cornets weren't invented. Even if they had been, Flenton couldn't play one."
"This is that Little John, not this one," the Friar pleaded. "Cut the cornet out, Robin, and make it what you like."
"Nay," said Robin, "this is your funeral, not mine. Here's the Tinker with his picture. Hope the Royal Academy folk won't be jealous."