YE KNYGHTE-MARE.

Ye log burns low, ye feaste is donne, Twelve knyghtes of ye Table Rounde Slyde down fromme ye benches, one by one, And snore upon ye ground. Ye log to a dimme blue flame has died, When ye doore of ye banquet halle Is opened wide, and in there glyde Twelve spectral Hagges ande Talle. Ye log burns dimme, and eke more dimme, Loud groans each knyghtlie gueste, As ye ghoste of his grandmother, gaunt and grimme, Sitts on each knyghte hys cheste. Ye log in pieces twaine doth falle, Ye daye beginnes to breake, Twelve ghostlie grandmothers glyde from ye hall, And ye twelve goode knyghtes awake. Ande ever whenne Mynce Pye was placed On ye table frome thatte daye, Ye Twelve knyghtes crossed themselves in haste Ande looked ye other waye.