g, 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 run the ditty:--

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,
Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,
Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
Up in the morning, 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.

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,
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 freemen; 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.

There came three merry men from south, west, and north,
Ever more sing the roundelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,
And where was the widow might say them nay?

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,
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?

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,
He boasted