Tom o' Bedlam

From the hagg and hungrie 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 doe sing, "Any food, any feeding,

Feeding, drink and clothing."

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I

twice twenty bin enragèd,

And of forty bin

three times fifteene

in durance soundly cagèd.

On the lordlie loftes of Bedlem,

with stubble softe and dainty,

Brave bracelets strong,

sweet whips ding-dong,

and wholesome hunger plenty,

And nowe I sing, "Any food, any feeding,

Feeding, drink and clothing."

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

When I short have shorne my sowre face

and swigg'd my oaken barrel,

in an oaken inn

I pound my skin

in a suit of gilt apparell.

The moon's my constant mistresse,

And the lowlie owle my marrowe;

The flaming Drake

and the night-crowe make

me music to my sorrowe.

While I doe sing, "Any food, any feeding,

Feeding, drink and 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 see the stars

at bloody wars

in the wounded welkin weeping;

The moone embrace her shepheard,

And the Queen of love her warryor.

While the first [doth borne

the star of morne],

And the next the heavenly Farrier.

While I doe sing, "Any food, any feeding,

Feeding, drink and clothing."

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The Gypsie Snap and Pedro,

are none of Tom's comradoes,

The punk I scorn

and the cutpurse sworn,

and the roaring boy's bravadoe.

The meeke, the white, the gentle,

Me handle, touch, and spare not,

But those that crosse

Tom Rynosseros

Doe what the panther dare not.

Although I sing, "Any food, any feeding,

Feeding, drink and clothing."

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

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 ghostes and shadows

I summoned am to tourney.

Ten leagues beyond

the wide world's end.

Me thinke it is no journey.

Yet will I sing, "Any food, any feeding,

Feeding, drink and clothing."

Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.