. . . . . .

    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!