Showing posts with label Anonymous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anonymous. Show all posts

Ding, Dong, Bell (Anonymous)

Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy’s in the well.
Who put her in?--
Little Johnny Lin.
Who pulled her out?
Dog with long snout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To drown poor pussy-cat,
Who never did any harm,
But killed the mice in his farmer's barn.
Modern version:
Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy’s in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Stout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To try to drown poor pussy cat,
Who ne’er did him any harm,
But killed all the mice in the farmer's barn.
Ding, Dong, Bell is a popular English language nursery rhyme.

There Was a Crooked Man (Anonymous)


There was a crooked man,
and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
against a crooked stile:
He bought a crooked cat,
which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together
in a little crooked house.

Forum Thread: "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" (Anonymous Folk Poetry)

[Note: this thread was originally posted in April 2008, but I thought it was worth a bump up to 2011.]
I'm going to crawl out on a limb here and make a case for why most modern academic poetry will not endure beyond this generation.

This morning, a traditional folk poem was published in our morning paper (York Daily Record, 10 April 2008, 6A) as part of "Save Those Clippings," by Richard Bowers, a column on aging and how older people seem to collect clippings and other stuff throughout their lives; the author even mentioned Emily Dickinson's penchant for collecting things: "After her death they found volumes of scraps with thoughts (her own and others) that were like seeds from which grew her marvelous poems."

Bowers suggested that his readership pour themselves a cup of coffee, sit back, relax, and read the following traditional/folk poem on aging:
How do I know my youth is all spent?

Well, my Get-up-go has Got-up-and-went.

But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin,

When I think of where my "Get Up" has been.

Old age is golden, I think I've heard it said.

But sometimes I wonder as I crawl into bed,

With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,

And my eyes on the table until I wake up,

'Ere' sleep dims my vision, I say to myself,

"Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?"

And I'm happy to say, as I close my door--

"My friends are the same, perhaps even more."

[
But nations are warring and business is vexed

So I'll stick around to see what happens next.
]

When I was young, my slippers were red,

I could kick up my heels right over my head.

When I grew older, my slippers were blue,

But still I could dance the whole [night] day through.

But I am old, my slippers are black,

I walk [huff] to the store and [I] puff my way back.

[
But never you laugh, I don't mind at all

I'd rather be huffing than not puff at all
]

The reason I know my youth is all spent,

"My Get Up and Go has Got Up and Went."

But I really don't mind when I think with a grin

Of all the grand places my "Get Up" has been.

Since I have retired from life's competition,

I accommodate myself with complete submission.

So, I get up each morning and dust off my wits,

Open the paper and read the obits,

If my name is missing, I know I'm not dead,

And I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.
[Bracketed words were added by Pete Seeger for a song of the same title.]

This poem, published in a market of about 350,000 people, probably received more views on one day than any published modern chapbook in its entire life cycle.

Now why is that?

"My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" is certainly not "great" poetry; it doesn't play with language, doesn't stun with great metaphors and imagery, doesn't pretend to be the unknown poet's grand opus.

It's just a poem that focuses on the human condition and in a way that the Uncle Lyles of middle America can understand and enjoy. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" does the same thing, but in a way that does not reach everyone.

Now I love Prufrock, but I must admit it has taken me several readings to get there, and I still don't understand everything in that poem. But I'm an academic, and I'm expected to engage in a poetic struggle with Prufrock and his problems. But the average poetry aficionado can just get up and leave. And does. And will continue to do so. Now T.S. Eliot's work will endure, simply because the academy says it will by continuing to publish his poems in anthologies and imposing it on college freshmen. Perhaps Eliot's work endures because he was the first to wrestle with language in that long meandering manner, with vivid metaphors and similes, so he gets a pass for getting there first, just as e.e. cummings has been forgiven for all the imitative lower case "i" poems that have dogged his work.

But here's the deal: once my students move on from Prufrock, most of them will forget him or only remember him as that strange old guy with the thinning hair, talking of bugs struggling on pins, yellow fog rubbing its back, crabs, peaches, women coming and going and speaking of Michelangelo.

Now back to "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went." I remember this poem from my childhood. Being raised by grandparents, I was privy to aging issues from a very young age. For amusement, my grandmother often dragged me to funerals of distant acquaintances and even strangers just because they were "from the parish." My grandmother loved this poem and knew it practically by heart. Of course, I'd roll my eyes and wished I could hang with younger people, but guess what? In an odd way, this poem has stuck with me. When I read it in this morning's paper, it struck a chord and brought back a past that no longer exists.

I can read a New Yorker poem by a famous poet, and five minutes later, it's gone. No footprint at all. And it doesn't even matter if the poem is a linguistic masterpiece or just an exercise by a tired well-known poet. Something always seems to be missing.

So, today, on the way to a conference, I tried to figured out why most people feel so removed and even alienated from modern poetry, which is often well crafted and even deeply personal.

I decided that "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" would be a good poem to deconstruct, to figure out why this simple poem has endured among the masses, even touching folk singer Pete Seeger enough to write a melody for it. I came up with these reasons:

1. The poem rhymes. Readers love to read and listen to rhyme. Back in the day when most people couldn't read, rhymed poems were easy to memorize and pass down to the next generation. Also, there is something about poetic patterns that is appealing and comforting.

2. The theme is universal, easily accessible to all readers. Even as a kid, when I was rolling my eyes, I understood, at least on one level, what aging meant to my grandparents, and this poem "explained" it in a way that I could understand. Modern poetry tends to be so overly personal, almost to the point of being obtuse to most readers except for the poet's inner circle. This navel-gazing trend became popular with Sylvia Plath's works ("Daddy," "Edge," and "Ariel"); her poetry (which I love, by the way) practically requires an accompanying compendium of her life. But "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" requires no bio, cultural, or historical background.

3. The poem offers humor. Readers love to laugh and tend to shy away from works that are too dark. Modern poetry tends to offer too little humor, not even dark humor.

4. It's sentimental and smarmy. People love poems that make them cry and remember back when--nothing like a good tear jerker to get your day started. I really noticed this in Macedonia, at parties where the rakjia flowed, the hankies and guitars came out, and the sad songs about lost love and lost nations were sung and wailed. These people were intellectuals, too, but they weren't ashamed of their beloved folk songs and poems.

5. The poem is predictable in its rhyme, diction, structure, and, yes, cliches. Poetry that allows the reader to remain in his/her comfort zone is going to stick with him/her emotionally, even intellectuals.

6. The poem tells a story, the narrative about the slippers (red, blue, and black) ties the story together and actually depicts the aging process, using the slippers as a sort of extended metaphor.

7. The poem is generally upbeat in tone and actually has a warped happy ending: I'm not listed in the obits today, so all is well with the world. Wow! Why not go out and celebrate with breakfast at Denny's? It's a glorious day to be alive and not a good day to die! What's not to like about that?

8. The poem is timeless, no tedious references to popular culture that will fade within a few years and require extensive footnoting. Its meaning will be as accessible in 2108 as it is today.

9. The poem is slightly ribald ("Of all the grand places my 'Get Up' has been"), but not so much that grandpa couldn't read the poem to his granddaughter. The double entendre allows the elders a "wink, wink" moment as the kiddies have fun with the rhyme and wordplay. Hell, you could read this poem in church.

10. The poem is simple--one does not need pages of literary criticism to decode meaning--it's all right there on the surface. Yet the poem doesn't speak down to the readers; its language is simple, yet descriptive enough to paint a glad-to-be-alive moment in the speaker's life.

It would be so easy to sneer at a poem like "My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went," but in an odd way, this poem has and will continue to endure because it deals with a very common aspect of the human condition: aging. Anyone who is fortunate enough to get older will face the very issues the poem covers. For more of intellectual exercise, one might read Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me," which covers some of the same themes, albeit on a higher level--although with some multiple readings this is still an accessible poem.

"My Get Up and Go Has Got Up and Went" will continue to appear on the pages of daily newspapers (whether it's a print version delivered at one's door or appears on a computer screen), whereas most modern poems with all their sophisticated LangPo techniques will fall into obscurity, buried in old dusty and unread books.

One last note: Robert Frost's work endures and will continue to endure because of its layered nuances. We all know that "The Mending Wall" is not just about a fence between two neighbors, nor is "The Road Not Taken" just about a walk in the woods and trying to figure what literal direction to take. Yet a young or less astute reader may very well enjoy those poems on a surface level.

Thus, Frost offers the best that a poet can offer: popular enjoyment and intellectual appeal.

What are your thoughts?

Folktales: The Story of the Three Little Pigs, the Adult Version (England)

Once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme
And monkeys chewed tobacco,
And hens took snuff to make them tough,
And ducks went quack, quack, quack, O!
There was an old sow with three little pigs, and as she had not enough to keep them, she sent them out to seek their fortune. The first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to him, "Please, man, give me that straw to build me a house." Which the man did, and the little pig built a house with it.

Presently came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said, "Little pig, little pig, let me come in."

To which the pig answered, "No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin."

The wolf then answered to that, "Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in." So he huffed, and he puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up the little pig.

The second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze [sticks], and said, "Please, man, give me that furze to build a house." Which the man did, and the pig built his house.

Then along came the wolf, and said, "Little pig, little pig, let me come in."

"No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin."

"Then I'll puff, and I'll huff, and I'll blow your house in." So he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and at last he blew the house down, and he ate up the little pig.

The third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said, "Please, man, give me those bricks to build a house with." So the man gave him the bricks, and he built his house with them.

So the wolf came, as he did to the other little pigs, and said, "Little pig, little pig, let me come in."

"No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin."

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."

Well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, and he puffed and huffed; but he could not get the house down. When he found that he could not, with all his huffing and puffing, blow the house down, he said, "Little pig, I know where there is a nice field of turnips."

"Where?" said the little pig.

"Oh, in Mr. Smith's home field, and if you will be ready tomorrow morning I will call for you, and we will go together and get some for dinner."

"Very well," said the little pig, "I will be ready. What time do you mean to go?"

"Oh, at six o'clock."

Well, the little pig got up at five, and got the turnips before the wolf came (which he did about six) and who said, "Little pig, are you ready?"

The little pig said, "Ready! I have been and come back again, and got a nice potful for dinner."

The wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be up to the little pig somehow or other, so he said, "Little pig, I know where there is a nice apple tree."

"Where?" said the pig.

"Down at Merry Garden," replied the wolf, "and if you will not deceive me I will come for you, at five o'clock tomorrow and get some apples."

Well, the little pig bustled up the next morning at four o'clock, and went off for the apples, hoping to get back before the wolf came; but he had further to go, and had to climb the tree, so that just as he was coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming, which, as you may suppose, frightened him very much.

When the wolf came up he said, "Little pig, what! Are you here before me? Are they nice apples?"

"Yes, very," said the little pig. "I will throw you down one." And he threw it so far, that, while the wolf was gone to pick it up, the little pig jumped down and ran home.

The next day the wolf came again, and said to the little pig, "Little pig, there is a fair at Shanklin this afternoon. Will you go?"

"Oh yes," said the pig, "I will go. What time shall you be ready?"

"At three," said the wolf. So the little pig went off before the time as usual, and got to the fair, and bought a butter churn, which he was going home with, when he saw the wolf coming. Then he could not tell what to do. So he got into the churn to hide, and by so doing turned it around, and it rolled down the hill with the pig in it, which frightened the wolf so much, that he ran home without going to the fair. He went to the pig's house, and told him how frightened he had been by a great round thing which came down the hill past him.

Then the little pig said, "Ha, I frightened you, then. I had been to the fair and bought a butter churn, and when I saw you, I got into it, and rolled down the hill."

Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he would eat up the little pig, and that he would get down the chimney after him. When the little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the pot full of water, and made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, took off the cover, and in fell the wolf; so the little pig put on the cover again in an instant, boiled him up, and ate him for supper, and lived happily ever afterwards.

______________________________

James Orchard Halliwell (also known as James Orchard Halliwell-Phillipps), The Nursery Rhymes of England (London and New York: Frederick Warne and Company, 1886), 37-41.

Have a Spooktacular Halloween! The Ghost of Goshen (Anonymous)


Through Goshen Hollow, where hemlocks grow,
Where rushing rills, with flash and flow,
Are over the rough rocks falling;
Where fox, where bear, and catamount hide,
In holes and dens In the mountain side,
A Circuit-preacher once used to ride,
And his name was Rufus Rawling.

He was set in his ways and what was strange,
If you argued with him he would not change,
One could get nothing through him.
Solemn and slow in style was he,
Slender and slim as a tamarack tree,
And always ready to disagree
With every one that knew him.

One night he saddled his sorrel mare,
And started over to Ripton, where
He had promised to do some preaching.
Away he cantered over the hill,
Past the schoolhouse at Capen's mill;
The moon was down and the place was still,
Save the sound of a night-hawk screeching.

At last he came to a deep ravine,
He felt a kind of queer, and mean
Sensation stealing o'er him.
Old Sorrel began to travel slow,
Then gave a snort and refused to go;
The parson chucked, and he holloa'd "whoa,"
And wondered what was before him.

Then suddenly he seemed to hear
A gurgling groan so very near,
It scattered his senses nearly.
"Go 'ome, go'ome," It loudly cried,
"Go 'ome," re-echoed the mountain side,
"Go 'ome," away In the distance died-
He wished he was home sincerely.

And then before his startled sight,
A light flashed out upon the night
That seemed to "beat all creation."
Then through the bushes a figure stole,
With eyes of fire and lips of coal,
That froze his blood and shook his soul
With horror and consternation.

He lost his sermon, he dropped his book,
His hair stood up, and his saddle shook
Like a sawmill under motion.
No cry he uttered, no word he said,
But, suddenly turning Sorrel's head,
Away and out of the woods he fled
As fast as he could for Goshen.

The ghost he saw and the rattling bones
Were a pumpkin, a gourd, and some gravel stones,
That gave him all that glory;
But ne'er again up that mountain side,
In the light would Rufus Rawling ride,
And many a time I've laughed till I cried
To hear him tell the story.
__________________________
Happy Halloween! Now for The Mad Doctor (1933),
starring Mickey Mouse

Enjoy!

Bonnie George Campbell (Anonymous)


Hie upon Hielands,
and laigh upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell
rode out on a day.

Saddled and bridled
and booted rade he;
Toom* hame cam' the saddle,
but never cam' he.

Down cam' his auld mither,
greetin' fu' sair,
And down cam' his bonny wife,
wringin' her hair:--

"My meadow lies green,
and my corn is unshorn,
My barn is to build
and my babe is unborn."

Saddled and bridled
and booted rade he,
Toom hame cam' the saddle
but never cam' he.

_______________________
*Toom = empty

The Wraggle-Taggle Gypsies (Anonymous)

*
The Wraggle-Taggle Gypsies (Folk Song performed by Tears for Beer)



sfbwwfc

___________________________________________________________________


There were three gypsies a come to my door,
And down stairs ran this a-lady, O.
One sang high and another sang low
And the other sang bonny bonny Biscay O

Then she pulled off her silk finished gown,
And put on hose of leather, O
The ragged ragged rags about our door
And she's gone with the wraggle, taggle gypsies O

It was late last night when my lord came home,
Inquiring for his a-lady O
The servants said on every hand
She's gone with the wraggle-taggle gypsies, O

O saddle to me my milk-white steed
And go and fetch me my pony, O
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who's gone with the wraggle-taggle gypsies O

O he rode high, and he rode low
He rode through wood and copses too,
Until he came to a wide open field,
And there he espied his a-lady O

What makes you leave you house and land?
What makes you leave you money, O?
What makes you leave you new-wedded lord,
To follow the wraggle-taggle gypsies, O.

What care I for my house and land?
What care I for my money,O?
What care I for my new-wedded lord,
I'm off with the wraggle-taggle gypsies, O!

"Last night you slept on a goosefeather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O.
Tonight you'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle-taggle gypsies, O."

"What care I for a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O.
For tonight I'll sleet in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle-taggle gypsies, O.

________________________________________________________

In Song Catcher from the Southern Mountains (New York: AMS Press, 1966) author Dorothy Scarborough says that in the earliest edition of the ballad, the gypsy is called Johnny Faa, a name common among gypsies. When the gypsies were banished from Scotland in 1624, Johnny Faa disobeyed the decree and was hanged.
*

Classic Poetry: Wasn't That a Mighty Storm? (Folk Song, Eric von Schmidt, 1931 -2007)

*
________________________________________________________

"Wasn't That a Mighty Storm?" Performed by D. E. Mainer



jefferyb304

________________________________________________________


(This poem refers to the category 4 hurricane that hit Galveston in 1900)

(Chorus)
Wasn't that a mighty storm
Wasn't that a mighty storm in the morning, well
Wasn't that a mighty storm That blew all the people all away


Path of the 1900 Category 4 Hurricane that Smashed into Galveston.
___________________________________________________________

You know the year of 1900
Children, many years ago
Death came howling on the ocean
Death calls, you got to go
Now Galveston had a seawall
To keep the water down, and a
High tide from the ocean
Spread the water over the town


(Chorus)


You know the trumpets give them warning
You'd better leave this place
Now, no one thought of leaving
'til death stared them in the face
And the trains they all were loaded
The people were all leaving town
The trestle gave way to the water
And the trains they went on down


(Chorus)


Rain it was a' falling
Thunder began to roll
Lightning flashed like hell fire
The wind began to blow
Death the cruel master
When the wind began to blow
Rode in on a team of horses
T cried, "Death, won't you let me go."


(Chorus)


Hey, now trees fell on the island
And the houses give away
Some they strained and drowned
Some died in most every way
And the sea began to rolling
And the ships they could not stand
And I heard a captain crying
"God save a drowning man."


(Chorus)


Death your hands are clammy
You got them on my knee
You come and took my mother
Won't you come back after me
And the flood it took my neighbor
Took my brother too
I thought I heard my father calling
And I watched my mother go


(Chorus)


You know the year of 1900
Children, many years ago
Death came howling on the ocean
Death calls, you got to go




(Chorus 2X)

________________________________________________________

Galveston Hurricane of 1900 Destroys a Catholic Orphanage, Only 3 Survivors



Lonestar101

________________________________________________________
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Classic Poetry: A Hunting We Will Go (Anonymous, Traditional Folksong/Poem)

___________________________________________________________

The Magic of Living with Wolves



ToAddictedtoStayAway

___________________________________________________________

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
We'll catch a fox and put him in a box
And then we'll let him go

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
We'll catch a fish and put him on a dish
And then we'll let him go

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
We'll catch a bear and cut his hair
And then we'll let him go

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
We'll catch a pig and dance a little jig
And then we'll let him go

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go
We'll catch a giraffe and make him laugh
And then we'll let him go

_______________________________________________

A snark version of this poem can be found here.

_______________________________________________

A Man Among Wolves Trailer



twt2006

_______________________________________________

Classic Poetry--Solomon Grundy (Anonymous Nursery Rhyme)

*

___________________________________________________________________

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

That was the end of

Solomon Grundy.


___________________________________________________________________

Solomon Grundy Animation



BebVers
___________________________________________________________________



*

Classic Poetry: Tom O'Bedlam (Anonymous Folk Song)

*

"The Interior of Bedlam," from A Rake's Progress, by William Hogarth, 1763.
(McCormick Library, Northwestern University--From Wikipedia).
_______________________________________________________________

From the hag and hungry goblin,
That into rags would rend ye,
------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?
------ Money, drink, or clothing?
------ Come dame or maid,
------ Be not afraid--
------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."


Of thirty bare years have I,
Twice twenty been enraged,
------ And of forty been
------ Three times fifteen,
in durance soundly caged,

In the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
With the stubble soft and dainty,
------ Brave bracelets strong,
------ Sweet whips ding-dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.

------ And now I sing "Any food, any feeding?
------ Money, 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 waked.
------ Till the roguish boy
------ Of love where I lay
Me found and stripped me naked.

------ While I do sing "Any food, any feeding?
------ Money, drink, or clothing?
------ Come dame or maid,
------ be not afraid--
------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."


When short I 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 lonely owl my marrow.
------The flaming drake
------and the night crow make
Me music to my sorrow.

------ While I do sing "Any food, any feeding?
------ Money, 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 Paul's
------ with waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.

------ But I do sing "Any food, any feeding?
------ Money, 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 mortal wars
In the wounded welkin weeping.

The moon embrace 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?
------ Money, drink, or clothing?
------ Come dame or maid,
------ be not afraid--
------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."

The Gypsies, Snap and Pedro,
Are none of Tom's comradoes,
------ The punk I scorn,
------ and the cutpurse sworn
And the roaring boy's bravadoes.

The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle not nor spare not;
------ But those that cross
------ Tom Rynosseross
Do what the panther dare not.

------ Although I sing "Any food, any feeding?
------ Money, 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 wild world's end--
Methinks it is no journey.

------ Yet I do sing "Any food, any feeding?
------ Money, drink, or clothing?
------ Come dame or maid,
------ be not afraid--
------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."


*

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