midnight
Come , cudgel your memory . Have you no friends in foreign parts that you would gladly have tidings of ? '' `` Troth , sir , not I , '' answered the host , `` since ranting Robin of Drysandford was shot at the siege of the Brill . The devil take the caliver that fired the ball , for a blither lad never filled a cup at midnight ! But he is dead and gone , and I know not a soldier , or a traveller , who is a soldier 's mate , that I would give a peeled codling for . '' `` By the Mass , that is strange . What !