Spouted spear and pawned habergeon,
Pledged his sword and surcoat gay,
Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board,
Sate and stitched the livelong day?
“Taylzeour! not one single shilling
Does my breeches-pocket hold:
I to pay am really willing,
If I only had the gold.
Farmers none can I encounter,
Graziers there are none to kill;
Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour,
Bother not about thy bill.”
“Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often
Have you tried that slippery trick;
Hearts like mine you cannot soften,
Vainly do you ask for tick.
Christmas and its bills are coming,
Soon will they be showering in;
Therefore, once for all, my rum un,
I expect you’ll post the tin.
“Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe
In the palmer’s amice brown;
He shall lead you unto jail, if
Instantly you stump not down.”
Deeply swore the young crusader,
But the taylzeour would not hear;
And the gloomy, bearded bayliffe
Evermore kept sneaking near.
“Neither groat nor maravedi
Have I got my soul to bless;
And I’d feel extremely seedy,
Languishing in vile duresse.
Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour,
Take my steed and armour free,
Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle’s,
And I’ll work the rest for thee.”
Lightly leaped he on the shop-board,
Lightly crooked his manly limb,
Lightly drove the glancing needle
Through the growing doublet’s rim
Gaberdines in countless number
Did the taylzeour knyghte repair,
And entirely on cucumber
And on cabbage lived he there.
Once his weary task beguiling
With a low and plaintive song,
That good knyghte o’er miles of broadcloth
Drove the hissing goose along;
From her lofty latticed window
Looked the taylzeour’s daughter down,
And she instantly discovered
That her heart was not her own.
“Canst thou love me, gentle stranger?”
Picking at a pink she stood—
And the knyghte at once admitted
That he rather thought he could.
“He who weds me shall have riches,
Gold, and lands, and houses free.”
“For a single pair of—small-clothes,
I would roam the world with thee!”