I am a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,-- Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead-roll I merrily chant; Where'er I walk no money I want; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell,-- Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?
After supper of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream; Myself, by denial, I mortify-- With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin,-- With old sack wine I'm lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?
I cannot eat but little meat,-- My stomach is not good; But, sure, I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care; I nothing am a-cold,-- I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. _Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!_
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead,-- Much bread I not desire. No frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold,-- I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. _Back and side_, etc.
And Tyb, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till you may see The tears run down her cheek; Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, Even as a malt-worm should; And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old." _Back and side_, etc.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily trowled, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old! _Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!_
A brace of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes: A nostrum famous in old popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: A sort of apostolic salt, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.