First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald (they be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench (pike not come into England yet). And of sea fish—herrings, mackerel, soles, salmon, porpoises—a goodly number. Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look upon, bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins, herons, cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in season didn’t matter); and scores of domestic fowls—hens, geese, pigeons, ducks, _et id genus omne_. Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to pay their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four sheep—only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two succulent calves. Of the pastry—twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three bushels of last autumn’s apples were the foundation; two bushels of flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in England. In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it. As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey (Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret). All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo: Sometimes in the night watch, Half seen in the gloaming, Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating All into the darkness. And the harps responded in deep minor chords: All into the darkness. We dream that we clasp them, The forms of our dear ones. When, lo, as we touch them, They leave us and vanish On wings that beat lightly The still paths of slumber. Very softly the harps: The still paths of slumber. They left in high valour The land of their boyhood, And sorrowful patience Awaits their returning While love holds expectant Their homes in our bosoms. Sweetly the harps: Their homes in our bosoms. In high hope they left us In sorrow with weeping Their loved ones await them. For lo, to their greeting Instead of our heroes Come only their phantoms. The harps deep and low: Come only their phantoms. We weep as we reckon The deeds of their glory— Of this one the wisdom, Of that one the valour: And they in their beauty Sleep sound in their death shrouds. The harps dismally: Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}. “Stop! stop!” said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady’s eyes. “No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by such boding?” “Let the heir stay with us,” cried the guests.