Hungry and cold,
On the wintry wold,
Where the drifting snow falls fast.
“But ’tis cheery enough to revel by night,
In the crackling faggot’s light:
’Tis merry enough to have and to hold
The savoury roast,
And the nut-brown toast,
With jolly good ale and old.”
The huntsman lay snug all this time; sometimes quaking, in dread of getting into trouble, and sometimes licking his lips at the savoury supper before him, and half in the mind to fight for it with the imp. However, he kept himself quiet in his corner; till all of a sudden the little man’s eye wandered from his cheering ale-cup to Bruin’s carcase, as he lay rolled up like a ball, fast asleep in the chimney-corner.