"Bide thou here," quoth Robin to the Tinker, "while I go and see that
mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I
know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth." So saying, he went within
and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to
the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them.

"By Our Lady," said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, "yon
same Withold of Tamworth--a right good Saxon name, too, I would have
thee know--breweth the most humming ale that e'er passed the lips of Wat
o' the Crabstaff."

"Drink, man, drink," cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile.
"Ho, landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a
song, my jolly blade."

"Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow," quoth the Tinker,
"for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it
doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou
wouldst hear a song, and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so
well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while."

Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called
"The Marriage of Sir Gawaine," which you may some time read yourself, in
stout English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble
tale of noble knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the
Tinker came to the last verse his tongue began to trip and his head to
spin, because of the strong waters mixed with the ale. First his tongue
tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then his head wagged from side to
side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never would waken again.