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Manuel came down through the lower hall, where the table was as the revelers had left it. In the middle of the disordered room stood a huge copper vessel half full of liquor, and beside it was a drinking-horn of gold. Manuel paused here, and drank of the sweet heather-wine as though he had need to hearten himself.
Kling-klang, ding-dong, hear the hammers clinking Stone pots, iron kettles, copper cups for drinkin'! Elf-shots for bowmen plough a mighty furrow Hee-o, wee-o, foxling in our burrow! Hush thee, my baby! The Beltane's aglow, Making the deasil the wiseacres go. Brewing our heather-wine, dancing in round Earth-folk are we, by her spells are we bound.
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