Right jollie is ye tailyor-man
As annie man may be;
And all ye daye, upon ye benche
He worketh merrilie.
And oft, ye while in pleasante wise
He coileth up his lymbes,
He singeth songs ye like whereof
Are not in Watts his hymns.
And yet he toileth all ye while
His merrie catches rolle;
As true unto ye needle as
Ye needle to ye pole.
What cares ye valiant tailyor-man
For all ye cowarde fears?
Against ye scissors of ye Fates,
He points his mightie shears.
He heedeth not ye anciente jests
That witless sinners use;
What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man
Ye hissinge of a goose?
He pulleth at ye busie threade,
To feede his lovinge wife
And eke his childe; for unto them
It is the threade of life.
He cutteth well ye rich man's coate,
And with unseemlie pride,
He sees ye little waistcoate In
Ye cabbage bye his side,
Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,
To labor nothing loth,
Sits bye with readie hande to baste
Ye urchin, and ye cloth.
Full happie is ye tailyor-man
Yet is he often tried,
Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes,
Wax wanton in his pride.
Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
And yet he hath a foe,
A cunning enemie that none
So well as tailyors knowe.