After this, as they couldn't reach an agreement, they changed the subject to rum punch, and argued a good deal as to the right quantities of lemon and sugar and nutmeg; and whether it was or was not improved by the addition of brandy, and how much; and an orange or so, and how many; and a tangerine, if you had it; and a tot of gin, if you had it left. Yet in this case too the most repeated practice proved as inadequate as the most confirmed theory. So after a bit Old Gillman said, "This is child's play, boy. After all, there's but one drink for kings and men. Give us a song over our cup, and I'll sing along o' ye." "Right," said Martin, "if you can fetch me the only cup worthy to sing over." "What cup's that, boy?" "What but a kingcup?" said Martin. "A king once drank from this," said Gillman, fetching down a goblet as golden as ale. "He looked like a shepherd, and had a fold just across the road, but he was a king for all that. So strike up." "After me, then," said Martin; and they pushed the cup between them, and the song too. Martin: What shall we drink of when we sup? Gillman: What d'ye say to the King's own cup? Martin: What's the drink? Gillman: What d'ye think? Martin: Farmer, say! Water? Gillman: Nay! Martin: Wine? Gillman: Aye! Martin: Red wine? Gillman: Fie! Martin: White wine? Gillman: No! Martin: Yellow wine? Gillman: Oh! Martin: What in fine, What wine then? Gillman: The only wine That's fit for men Who drink of the King's Cup when they dine, And that is the Old Brown Barley Wine! From This I'll drink ye high, Point I I'll drink ye low, Don't Know Till the stars run dry Which Of Of their juices oh! Them Was I'll drink ye up, Singing; I'll drink ye down, And No More Till the old moon's cup Did They: Is cracked all round, And the pickled sun Jumps out of his brine, And you cry Done! To the Barley Wine. Come, boy, sup! Come, fill up! Here's King's own drink for the King's own cup! What happened after this I really don't know. For I was not there, though I should like to have been. I only know that when Martin Pippin stepped out of Gillman's Farm with his lute on his back, Old Gillman was fast asleep on the settle. But Martin had never been wider awake. It was late in the afternoon. There was no sign of human life anywhere. In their stables the cows were lowing very badly. "Oh, maids, maids, maids!" sighed Martin Pippin. "Rack and ruin, my dears, rack and ruin!"