For then I shall sit at a table,
My napkin over my knees,
And tipple as long as I’m able,
And gobble as long as I please,
With plenty of good hot curry,
And plenty of custard pie,—
If he only would hurry, hurry!
O why does he linger, why?”
The voice stopped, and I rose to my feet and made off across the moonlit fields.
“There used to be a baker at the castle,” said the Queen, “shortly after I was married, who made up a great many very pretty songs. The King used to say that he sang better than he baked. For my part, I was very sorry to lose him. His niece was going to be married in one of our villages, I forget which,—no, I believe it was a cousin; I am almost sure it was his cousin, and I think it was the niece who was looking after his mother while he was here, and she had to go and keep house for the cousin after she was married, and that left his mother all alone; so that he had to go back to his mother, and I always thought he was such a good son to give up his place here at the castle in order to take care of his poor old mother, and I’m sure very few would have done it in his place; but I must say that the next baker was very much better at gingerbread, though he never made up any songs, and I think the King himself missed the first one a good deal afterward, though he never would say so.”