When I short have shorn my sow’s 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 marrow;
The flaming drake and the night crow make
Me music to my sorrow.
While I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.
(excerpt from Tom O’Bedlam’s song)
(For the image above, click here.)
Kinda lonely refrain in this one. You can ‘feel’ the atmosphere when you take the time. Thank you.
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