The gentlemen into whose society he was thrown, however, were not of a class to rest satisfied with even the best old humming ale; and while one body of them demanded the implements and materials for making punch, another called for a pitcher of Burgundy, which, notwithstanding the size, character, and appearance of the house, was produced as a matter of course. John Graves had his ladleful from the bowl, and his glassful from the pitcher; and Doveton, who was beginning to get merry, and eke good-humoured in his cups, insisted upon having one of the songs the landlord had so much vaunted. The madman required no pressing; the very name of music was enough for him; and with a full sonorous voice, and memory which failed not in the slightest particular, he began an old song, one of the many in praise of punch. "Now I will sing you a song in return, Master John," cried the rough-featured fellow called Hardcastle, who had been one of the assailants of Alice Herbert. "Why, Hardie, thou canst never sing to-night," replied Doveton. "Thou canst never sing to-night, with the slit in the weasand thou hast gotten there. It will let all the wind out, and thy song will be like the song of a broken bellows or bursten bagpipe." "Never you mind that, Doveton," replied the other; "my song shall be sung, if the devil and you stood at the door together; a pretty pair of you!" and he accordingly proceeded to pour forth, in a voice of goodly power, but very inferior in melody to that of the madman, a song well suited to the taste of his auditors:-- THE WATERY MOON. The wat'ry moon is in the sky, Looking all dim and pale on high; And the traveller gazes with anxious eye, And thinks it will rain full soon: And he draws his cloak around him tight, But if I be not mistaken quite, He will open that cloak again to-night Beneath the wat'ry moon. The wat'ry moon is sinking low, The traveller's beast is dull and slow, And neither word, nor spur, nor blow Will bring him sooner boon. But the saddle-bags are heavy and full, And all too much for a beast so dull, Up this steep shady hill to pull, Beneath the wat'ry moon. The wat'ry moon is gone to bed; The traveller on his way has sped; The horse seems lighter the road to tread, And he'll be home very soon; But with a young man he met on the hill, Who lightened his load with right good will, Hoping often to show the same kindness still, Beneath the wat'ry moon.