Cowslips fair and columbine,
     Dusky violets by the rill. 
 But the ivy green cloth grow
 When the north wind bringeth snow. 
          Ivy!  Ivy! 
          Stanch and true! 
 Thus I’d have her love to be: 
          Not to die
          At the nigh
 Breath of cold adversity.”

“’Tis well sung,” quoth Robin, “but, cousin, I tell thee plain, I would rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some lusty ballad than a finicking song of flowers and birds, and what not.  Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and ’tis none so bad a snatch of a song, for the matter of that.  Now, Tanner, it is thy turn.”

“I know not,” quoth Arthur, smiling, with his head on one side, like a budding lass that is asked to dance, “I know not that I can match our sweet friend’s song; moreover, I do verily think that I have caught a cold and have a certain tickling and huskiness in the windpipe.”

“Nay, sing up, friend,” quoth Little John, who sat next to him, patting him upon the shoulder.  “Thou hast a fair, round, mellow voice; let us have a touch of it.”

“Nay, an ye will ha’ a poor thing,” said Arthur, “I will do my best.  Have ye ever heard of the wooing of Sir Keith, the stout young Cornish knight, in good King Arthur’s time?”

“Methinks I have heard somewhat of it,” said Robin; “but ne’ertheless strike up thy ditty and let us hear it, for, as I do remember me, it is a gallant song; so out with it, good fellow.”

Thereupon, clearing his throat, the Tanner, without more ado, began to sing: 

THE WOOING OF SIR KEITH

 “King Arthur sat in his royal hall,
     And about on either hand
 Was many a noble lordling tall,
     The greatest in the land.

 “Sat Lancelot with raven locks,
     Gawaine with golden hair,
 Sir Tristram, Kay who kept the locks,
     And many another there.

 “And through the stained windows bright,
     From o’er the red-tiled eaves,
 The sunlight blazed with colored light
     On golden helms and greaves.

 “But suddenly a silence came
     About the Table Round,
 For up the hall there walked a dame
     Bent nigh unto the ground.

 “Her nose was hooked, her eyes were bleared,
     Her locks were lank and white;
 Upon her chin there grew a beard;
     She was a gruesome sight.

 “And so with crawling step she came
     And kneeled at Arthur’s feet;
 Quoth Kay, ’She is the foulest dame
     That e’er my sight did greet.’

 “’O mighty King! of thee I crave
     A boon on bended knee’;
 ’Twas thus she spoke.  ‘What wouldst thou have.’ 
     Quoth Arthur, King, ‘of me_?’

 “Quoth she, ’I have a foul disease
     Doth gnaw my very heart,
 And but one thing can bring me ease
     Or cure my bitter smart.