Part III Wherein King Alfred Burns the Cakes
Hereat the bonny King grew blithe,
To hear the clownish jest;
How silly sots, as custom is,
Do descant at the best.
But not to spoil the foolish sport,
He was content, good King,
To fit the Shepherd’s humour right
In ev’ry kind of thing.
A sheep-hook then, with Patch his dog,
And tar-box by his side;
He, with his master, cheek by jowl,
Unto old Gillian hied,
Into whose sight no sooner come,
“Whom have you here?” quoth she,
“A fellow, I doubt, will cut our throats,
So like a knave looks he.”
“Not so, old Dame,” quoth Alfred straight,
“Of me you need not fear;
My master hired me for ten groats,
To serve you one whole year:
“So, good Dame Gillian, grant me leave
Within your house to stay;
For, by St. Anne, do what you can,
I will not yet away.”
Her churlish usage pleased him still,
And put him to such proof,
That he at night was almost choked
Within that smoky roof.
But as he sat with smiling cheer
The event of all to see,
His dame brought forth a piece of dough
Which in the fire throws she.
Where lying on the hearth to bake,
By chance, the cake did burn:
“What! canst thou not, thou lout,” quoth she,
“Take pains the same to turn?
“Thou art more quick to take it out,
And eat it up half dough,
Than thus to stay till’t be enough,
And so thy manners show!
“But serve me such another trick,
I’ll thwack thee on the snout:”
Which made the patient King, poor man,
Of her to stand in doubt.