A sheep-hook then, with Patch his dog,
And tar-box by his side;
He, with his master, cheek by jowl,
Unto old Gillian hied,
Into whose sight no sooner come,
“Whom have you here?” quoth she,
“A fellow, I doubt, will cut our throats,
So like a knave looks he.”
“Not so, old Dame,” quoth Alfred straight,
“Of me you need not fear;