ended with a shout of laughter. 'I trust that I am a better bowman than a minstrel,' said he.
'Methinks I have some remembrance of the lilt,' remarked the gleeman, running his fingers over the strings. 'Hoping that it will give thee no offence, most holy sir'—with a vicious snap at Alleyne—' and with the kind permit of the company, I will even venture upon it.'
At the time he was lost in admiration at the deft way in which the jongleur disguised the loss of his two missing strings, and the lusty, hearty fashion in which he trolled out his little ballad of the outland bowmen, which ran in some such fashion as this:
What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;
So we'll drain our jacks
To the English flax
And the land where the hemp was wove.
What of the shaft?
The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
