When thrice he o'er the boar's head 145
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: 150
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 155
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. 160
The boy brought forth a horne,
All golden was the rim:
Said he, "No cuckolde ever can
Set mouth unto the brim.
"No cuckold can this little horne 165
Lift fairly to his head;
But or on this, or that side,
He shall the liquor shed."
Some shed it on their shoulder,
Some shed it on their thigh; 170
And hee that could not hit his mouth,
Was sure to hit his eye.
Thus he, that was a cuckold,
Was known of every man:
But Cradock lifted easily, 175
And wan the golden can.
Thus boar's head, horn and mantle
Were this fair couple's meed:
And all such constant lovers,
God send them well to speed. 180
Then down in rage came Guenever,
And thus could spightful say,
"Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
Hath borne the prize away.