"Four nobles a week then I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
ANONYMOUS.
GLUGGITY GLUG. FROM "THE MYRTLE AND THE VINE."
A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper; He mounted his horse in the night at the door, And sat with his face to the crupper: "Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity—glug—glug—glug."
The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level; But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scampered due north, like a devil: "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, "I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill; And 't is cheap,—for he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity—glug—glug—glug."
The steed made a stop,—in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot, But to drink with their tails is amazing!" Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle; Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose,— I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity—glug—glug—glug!"
I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. FROM THE OPERA OF "ROBIN HOOD."
I am a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,— Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead-roll I merrily chant; Where'er I walk no money I want; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell,— Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?
After supper of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream; Myself, by denial, I mortify— With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin,— With old sack wine I'm lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?