Then forth came an old knight,
A pattering o'er his creed;
And proffer'd to the little boy
Five nobles to his meed;
"And all the time of Christmass
Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
If thou wilt let my lady fair
Within the mantle shine."
A saint his lady seemed,
With step demure and slow,
And gravely to the mantle
With mincing pace doth goe.
When she the same had taken,
That was so fine and thin,
It shrivell'd all about her,
And show'd her dainty skin.
Ah! little did HER mincing,
Or HIS long prayers bestead;
She had no more hung on her,
Than a tassel and a thread.
Down she threwe the mantle,
With terror and dismay,
And, with a face of scarlet,
To her chamber hyed away.
Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
And bade her to come neare:
"Come, win this mantle, lady,
And do me credit here.
"Come, win this mantle, lady,
For now it shall be thine,
If thou hast never done amiss,
Sith first I made thee mine."
The lady, gently blushing,
With modest grace came on,
And now to trye the wondrous charm
Courageously is gone.
When she had tane the mantle,
And put it on her backe,
About the hem it seemed
To wrinkle and to cracke.