he was perpetually swinging himself backwards and forwards, now on the horse’s ears, then anon on the very rump of the animal—now hanging both his legs on one side, and now sitting with his face to the tail, moping, mowing, and making a thousand apish gestures, until his palfrey took his freaks so much to heart, as fairly to lay him at his length on the green grass—an incident which greatly amused the Knight, but compelled his companion to ride more steadily thereafter.
At the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it was called, in which the clown bore a mellow burden, to the better instructed Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus ran the ditty:—
Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,
Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
Up in the morn, love, Anna-Marie.
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,
The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,
’Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna- Marie.
Wamba.
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit,
For what are the joys that in waking we prove,
Compared with these visions, O Tybalt, my love?
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove—
But think not I dreamt of thee, Tybalt, my love.
“A dainty song,” said Wamba, when they had finished their carol, “and I swear by my bauble, a pretty moral!—I used to sing it with Gurth, once my playfellow, and now, by the grace of God and his master, no less than a freeman; and we once came by the cudgel for being so entranced by the melody, that we lay in bed two hours after sunrise, singing the ditty betwixt sleeping and waking; my bones ache at thinking of the tune ever since. Nevertheless, I have played the part of Anna-Marie, to please you, fair sir.”
The Jester next struck into another carol, a sort of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catching up the tune, replied in the like manner.
Knight and Wamba.
Ever more sing the undelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,
And where was the widow might say them nay?
Ever more sing the roundelay;
And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame,
And where was the widow might say him nay?
He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,
For she was the widow would say him nay.
Wamba.
Merrily sing the roundelay;
Hur’s a gentleman, God wot, and hur’s lineage was of Wales,
And where was the widow might say him nay?
Ap Tudor ap Rhiee, quoth his roundelay;
She said that one widow for so many was too few,
And she bade the Welshman wend his way.
Jollily singing his roundelay;
He spoke to the widow of living and rent,
And where was the widow could say him nay?
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