1.
From the hag and hungry goblin
that into rags would rend ye,
And the spirit that stands
By the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye
That of your five sound senses
you never be forsaken
Nor wander from
Yourselves with Tom
Abroad to beg your bacon.
While I do sing:
Chorus:
‖: ‘Any food, :‖ any feeding, drink or clothing?’
Come, dame or maid,
Be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.
2.
Of thirty bare years have I
twice twenty been enragèd,
And of forty been
Three times fifteen
In durance soundly cagèd
On the lordly lofts of Bedlam
with stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong,
Sweet whips – ding dong –
With wholesome hunger plenty.
And now I sing:
Chorus
3.
With a thought I took for Maudlin,
and a cruse of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall –
Sky bless you all –
I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest
till then I never wakèd;
Till the roguish boy
Of love where I lay
Me found and stripped me naked.
And now I sing:
Chorus
4.
When I short have shorn my sour-face,
and swigged my horny barrel
In an oaken inn
I pound my skin
As a suit of gilt apparrel.
The moon’s my constant mistress,
and the lowly owl my morrow;
The flaming drake
And the night-crow make
Me music to my sorrow.
While I do sing:
Chorus
5.
The palsy plagues my pulses
when I prig your pigs or pullen;
Your culvers take
Or matchless make
Your chanticleer or sullen.
When I want provant, with Humphry
I sup, and when benighted
I repose in Powles
With waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.
But I do sing:
Chorus
6.
I know more than Apollo,
for oft when he lies sleeping
I see the stars
At bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd,
and the queen of love her warrior
While the firs doth horn
The star of morn,
And the next the heavenly farrier.
While I do sing:
Chorus
7.
The Gypsy snap and Pedro
are none of Tom’s comrados.
The punk I scorn
And the cutpurse sworn
And the roaring boys bravados.
The meek, the white, the gentle
me handle, touch, and spare not;
But those that cross
Tom Rhinoceros
Do what the panther dare not.
Although I sing:
Chorus
8.
With an host of furious fancies,
whereof I am commander;
With a burning spear
And a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney;
Ten leagues beyond
The wide world’s end
Methinks it is no journey.
Yet will I sing:
Chorus