“Now hold thy hand, thou shaven Monk,
And do not strike me more,
And I will give thee silver and gold,
And of coin a plenteous store.”
The Monk he ran, the Trold he crept,
Still equal was their height;
Then shewed he him a little house
With doors of gold so bright.
Then shewed he him a little house
With golden doors fifteen;
There got the Monk of silver and gold
All he could wish I ween.
Seven lasts of silver, seven of gold,
To the cloisters he caus’d convey;
He bade them find a monk could wield
A club in as brave a way.
’Twas drawing fast to an evening hour
And the sun went down to rest,
Still fifteen Roman miles the monk
To the cloister had at least.
’Twas tending fast to the evening tide
And the sun to the earth did haste,
Yet he seized the first dish at the supper board
Ere the Abbot could get a taste.
Full fifteen monks he knock’d down when
No pottage he espied,
And up he hung fifteen because
The herrings were not fried.
Then out and spoke the little boy
Who waited at the meal:
“Each time the monk to the cloister comes
He thus with us will deal.”
And it was getting late at night
And folks to bed should hie,
Then because the Abbot sat too long
He struck him out an eye.
The Abbot hurried off to bed,
No longer dared remain;
I say to ye for verity
He felt both shame and pain.