Tom Tyler

I am a poor tiler in simple array,

And get a poor living, but eightpence a day,

My wife as I get it, doth spend it away;

For wedding and hanging is destiny.

And I cannot help it, she saith; wot we why?

I thought when I wed her, she had been a sheep,

At board to be friendly, to sleep when I sleep.

She loves so unkindly, she makes me to weep;

But I dare say nothing, God wot! wot ye why?

For wedding and hanging is destiny.

Besides this unkindness whereof my grief grows,

I think few tilers are match'd with such shrows;

Before she leaves brawling, she falls to deal blows

Which, early and late, doth cause me cry

That wedding and hanging is destiny.

The more that I please her, the worse she doth like me;

The more I forbear her, the more she doth strike me;

The more that I get her, the more she doth glike me;

Woe worth this ill fortune that maketh me cry

That wedding and hanging is destiny.

If I had been hanged when I had been married,

My torments had ended, though I had miscarried;

If I had been warned, then would I have tarried;

But now all too lately I feel and cry

That wedding and hanging is destiny.