A cobbler lived in Canterbury --He is dead now, poor soul!-- He sat at his door and stitched in the sun, Nodding and smiling at everyone; For St. Hugh makes all good cobblers merry, And often he sang as the pilgrims passed, "I can hammer a soldier's boot, And daintily glove a dainty foot. Many a sandal from my hand Has walked the road to Holy Land. Knights may fight for me, priests may pray for me, Pilgrims walk the pilgrim's way for me, I have a work in the world to do! --_Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, To good St. Hugh!_-- The cobbler must stick to his last." And anon he would cry "Kit! Kit! Kit!" to his little son, "Look at the pilgrims riding by! Dance down, hop down, after them, run!" Then, like an unfledged linnet, out Would tumble the brave little lad, With a piping shout,-- "O, look at them, look at them, look at them, Dad! Priest and prioress, abbot and friar, Soldier and seaman, knight and squire! How many countries have they seen? Is there a king there, is there a queen Dad, one day, Thou and I must ride like this, All along the Pilgrim's Way, By Glastonbury and Samarcand, El Dorado and Cathay, London and Persepolis, All the way to Holy Land!" Then, shaking his head as if he knew, Under the sign of the _Golden Shoe_, Touched by the glow of the setting sun, While the pilgrims passed, The little cobbler would laugh and say: "When you are old you will understand 'Tis a very long way To Samarcand! Why, largely to exaggerate Befits not men of small estate, But--I should say, yes, I should say, 'Tis a hundred miles from where you stand; And a hundred more, my little son, A hundred more, to Holy Land!... I have a work in the world to do --_Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, To good St. Hugh!_-- The cobbler must stick to his last." "Which last," said Nash, breaking his rhyme off short, "The crowder, after his kind, would seem to approve. Well--all the waves from that great wreck out there Break, and are lost in one withdrawing sigh: The little lad that used to play Around the cobbler's door, Kit Marlowe, Kit Marlowe, We shall not see him more. But--could I tell you how that galleon sank, Could I but bring you to that hollow whirl, The black gulf in mid-ocean, where that wreck Went thundering down, and round it hell still roars, That were a tale to snap all fiddle-strings." "Tell me," said Chapman.