And kindly did imbrace.
Quoth he, We’ll put on mothley grey,
And long staves in our hands,
A scrip and bottle by our sides,
As come from the holy land. {228}
So may we pass along the high-way,
None will ask us from whence we came,
But take us pilgrims for to be,
Or else some holy men.
Now they are on their journey gone,