At this Little John cleared his throat and, after a word or two about a
certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus:
"_Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go?
I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also,
And we'll gather the rose
As it sweetly blows,
For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing_."
Now it seemed as though Little John's songs were never to get sung, for
he had got no farther than this when the door of the inn opened and out
came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the landlord following them,
and, as the saying is, washing his hands with humble soap. But when the
brothers of Fountain Abbey saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad
in the robes of a Gray Friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little
Brother drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the
thin Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in his
mouth. Then, as Little John gathered his breath for a new verse, "How,
now," roared forth the fat Brother, his voice coming from him like loud
thunder from a little cloud, "thou naughty fellow, is this a fit place
for one in thy garb to tipple and sing profane songs?"
"Nay," quoth Little John, "sin' I cannot tipple and sing, like Your
Worship's reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must
e'en tipple and sing where I can.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332