ceremony. (That
is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our
forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly
forte, no can was filled.

Here's a health unto our master,
The founder of the feast;
Here's a health unto our master
And to our mistress!

And may his doings prosper,
Whate'er he takes in hand,
For we are all his servants,
And are at his command.

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung
fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect of
cymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound to
empty it before the chorus ceased.

Then drink, boys, drink!
And see ye do not spill,
For if ye do, ye shall drink two,
For 'tis our master's will.

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed
manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so on,
till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the
chorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident;
but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent the
exaction of the penalty.

To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of
obvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate and
often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all
faces were at present sober, and most of them serious--it was the
regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do,
as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their
wine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had
gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the
ceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence of
five minutes declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to
begin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boys
and Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious
thumping of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father's knee,
contributed with her small might and small fist.

When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desire
for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the waggoner
knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable,"
whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hear
it." Tim looked sheepish, tuc