marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

Tom O'Bedlam's Song

From the hags 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 travel from yourselves with Tom,
Abroad to beg your bacon.

Nor never sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

Of thirty bare years have I,
twice twenty have been enraged.
And of forty been three times fifteen,
in durence soundly encaged.
In the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
On rubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips ding-dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.

And now I sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

With a thought I took for Maudlin,
And a cruise of cockle porridge.
With a thing thus tall (Sky bless you all)
I fell into this dottage.
I slept not since the conquest-
Till then I never waked.
Till the roguish boy of love where I lay
my found and stripped naked.

And made me sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

When short I have shorn my sow's face,
And swigged my horned barrel,
In an oaken inn do I pawn my skin,
as a suit of gilt apparel.
The Moon's my constant mistress,
and the lonely owl my marrow.
The flaming drake and the night crow make
me music to my sorrow.

While there I sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

The palsy plague my pulse,
when I prig your pigs or pullen.
Your culvers take, or mateless make,
your Chanticleer, and sullen.
When I want provent with Humphrey,
I sup, and when benighted,
To respose in Pauls with waking souls,
I never am afrighted.

But still I sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping,
I behold the stars at mortal wars,
and the wounded welkin weeping.
The Moon embraces her shepard,
and the Queen of Love her Warrior,
While the first doth horn the Star of Morn,
and the next the Heavenly Farrier.

Whiles that I sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

The Gypsy Snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom's comrados.
The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn,
and the roaring boys bravadoes.
The sober, white, and gentle,
Me handle, touch, and spare not.
But those that cross rhinocerous,
Do what the panther dare not.

Although I sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

With a 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 wild world's end-
Methinks it is no journey.

All while I sing "Any food, any feeding?
Money, drink, or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid-
Poor Tom will injure nothing."

Traditional
Tags: poesy
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