pity poor tom, for tom's a'cold, and he doth shiver, and is mad!

[lemorttoussaint]

"Tom O'Bedlam's Song" anon. ballad

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: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or clothing?

Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.


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: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or clothing?

Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

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: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or clothing?

Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

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 apparel.

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: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or clothing?

Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

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: Any food,

Any feeding, 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 see the stars at bloody wars

In the wounded welkin weeping,

The moon embraces her shepherd,

And the queen of love her warrior,

While the first doth horn the star of morn,

And the next the heavenly Farrier.

While I do sing: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or clothing?

Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The gipsy Snap and Pedro

Are none of Tom's comradoes.

The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn,

And the roaring boys' bravadoes.

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: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or 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 ghosts and shadows

I summoned am to tourney

Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end,

Methinks it is no journey.

Yet I will sing: Any food,

Any feeding, drink, or clothing?

Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,

Poor Tom will injure nothing.