Then back to our homes right merrily we ride,

Dispersing through the country by vale and moun

The yeoman to his farm, and the baron to his hall, The hound to his kennel, and the hunter to his stall: The fagot burns cheerily,

The wassail bowl is bright,

And merrily, right merrily,

We pass the winter night!

THE FRIAR'S SONG.

137

The Friar's Song.

HE Snow patters down and the night air is

chill,

Round the walls of the abbey the wind bloweth shrill,

But little we care for the rude winter air,

For we season the weather with jovial fare.
Our abbot doth troll

The jolly brown bowl,

Till it brightens his face and rejoiceth his soul.

We hold the fair park of the baron in pawn,
And oft his good seneschal sends us a fawn;

We've store of good sack, of canary a flood,

And oceans of malmsey to quicken our blood.
And here while we sit,

We care not a bit

For the laugh of the squire or the sneer of the cit.

Right pleasant it is at the table to see

Our abbot preside, with his face full of glee;
Right pleasant to hear how he passes the joke,

While the cup circles round and the venison doth smoke;
He drinks till the tear

On his cheek doth appear,

For much he rejoiceth in jovial cheer.

He fills his good flagon with sack till he winks,
And telleth a bead every time that he drinks ;
He sends, holy man! the good liquor about
Till he fairly has counted his rosary out :

Then free from all cares,

And carnal snares,

He soberly unto his cell repairs.