KENILWORTH.
23
CHAPTER II.
After some brief interval, Master Goldthred, at the earnest instigation of mine host, and the joyous concurrence of his guest, indulged the company with the following morsel of melody:
“Of all the birds on bush or tree,
Commend me to the owl,
Since he may best ensample be
To those the cup that trowl.
For when the sun hath left the west,
He chooses the tree that he loves the best,
And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest;
Then though hours be late, and weather foul,
We’ll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl.
Commend me to the owl,
Since he may best ensample be
To those the cup that trowl.
For when the sun hath left the west,
He chooses the tree that he loves the best,
And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest;
Then though hours be late, and weather foul,
We’ll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl.
“The lark is but a bumpkin fowl,
He sleeps in his nest till morn;
But my blessing upon the jolly owl,
That all night blows his horn.
Then up with your cup till you stagger in speech,
And match me this catch till you swagger and screech,
And drink till you wink, my merry men each;
For though hours be late, and weather be foul,
We’ll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl.”
He sleeps in his nest till morn;
But my blessing upon the jolly owl,
That all night blows his horn.
Then up with your cup till you stagger in speech,
And match me this catch till you swagger and screech,
And drink till you wink, my merry men each;
For though hours be late, and weather be foul,
We’ll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl.”
“There is savour in this, my hearts,” said Michael, when the mercer had finished his song, “and some goodness seems left among you yet—but what
