Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/274

 Sir, note this that I will say; That Lord who maketh corn with hay And morrows each of yesterday, He hath you in his hand.

By Satan I hold no such thing; For if wine swell within a king Whose ears for drink are hot and ring, The same shall dream of wine-bibbing Whilst he can lie or stand.

Peace now, lords, for Godis head, Ye chirk as starlings that be fed And gape as fishes newly dead; The devil put your bones to bed, Lo, this is all to say.

By Mahound, lords, I have good will This devil's bird to wring and spill; For now meseems our game goes ill, Ye have scant hearts to play.

Lo, sirs, this word is there said, That Urias the knight is dead