But where foul sluts did dwell, Who used to sit up late, And would not scour the pewter well, There came a merry mate To kitchen or to hall, Or place where sprites resort; Then down went dish and platters all To make the greater sport. A further sport fell out When they to spoil did fall; Rude Robin Goodfellow, the lout, Would skim the milk-bowls all, And search the cream-pots too, For which poor milk-maid weeps. God wot what such mad guests will do When people soundly sleeps! . . . . . . These are but fables feigned, Because true stories old In doubtful days are more disdained Than any tale is told. THOMAS CHURCHYARD from _A Handfull of Gladsome Verses_ (1592). * * * * * THE MAD MERRY PRANKS OF ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW (To the Tune of _Dulcina_.) From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, And, in a minute's space, descry Each thing that's done below the moon, There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, ware Goblins! where I go, But Robin I Their feats will spy, And send them home, with ho, ho, ho! Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home; With counterfeiting voice I greet And call them on, with me to roam Thro' woods, thro' lakes, Thro' bogs, thro' brakes; Or else, unseen, with them I go, All in the nick To play some trick And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! Sometimes I meet them like a man; Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if, to ride, My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O'er hedge and lands, Thro' pools and ponds I whirry, laughing ho, ho, ho! When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; Unseen of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine; And, to make sport, I sniff and snort; And out the candles I do blow: The maids I kiss; They shriek--Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho! Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wool; And while they sleep and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still; I dress their hemp, I spin their tow, If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing ho, ho, ho!