"Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!
And shame me not for nought,
I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
Or blameful I have wrought.
"Once I kist Sir Cradocke
Beneathe the green-wood tree:
Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
Before he married mee."
When thus she had her shriven,
And her worst fault had told,
The mantle soon became her
Right comely as it shold.
Most rich and fair of colour,
Like gold it glittering shone:
And much the knights in Arthur's court
Admir'd her every one.
Then towards King Arthur's table
The boy he turn'd his eye:
Where stood a boar's head garnished
With bayes and rosemarye.
When thrice he o'er the boar's head
His little wand had drawne,
Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife
Can carve this head of brawne."
Then some their whittles rubbed
On whetstone, and on hone:
Some threwe them under the table,
And swore that they had none.
Sir Cradock had a little knife,
Of steel and iron made;
And in an instant thro' the skull
He thrust the shining blade.
He thrust the shining blade
Full easily and fast;
And every knight in Arthur's court
A morsel had to taste.
The boy brought forth a horne,
All golden was the rim:
Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can
Set mouth unto the brim.