Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/157

 While three most cunning Fiddlers, clad in crimson,
 * Played ihem a Supper Tune.

And he waited in the tree-fop like a Starling,
 * Till the Moon was gotten low;

When all the windows in the walls were darkened
 * He softly in did go.

There Robin and his Dame in bed were sleeping,
 * And his Children young and fair;

Only Robin's Hounds from their warm kennels
 * Yelped as he climbed the stair.

All, all were sleeping. Page and Fiddler,
 * Cook, Scullion, free from care;

Only Robin's Stallions from their stables
 * Neighed as he climbed the stair.

A wee wan light the Moon did shed him,
 * Hanging above the Sea,

And he counted into his bag (of beaten Silver)
 * Platters thirty-three.

Of Spoons three score; of jolly golden Goblets
 * He stowed in four save one,

And six fine seven-branched Cupid Candlesticks,
 * Before his work was done.

Nine bulging bags of Money in a cupboard,
 * Two Snuffers, and a Dish