The faggots burned, the porkling turned And crackled before the fire; And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose Of a passing ghostly friar.
He twirled at the pin, he entered in, He sate down at the board; The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed, And the humming ale out-poured.
The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, He chirped like a bird in May; The farmer told how his corn he had sold As he journeyed home that day.
The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, He changed from red to pale: "Oh, helpless elf! 'tis the fiend himself To whom thou hast made thy sale!"
The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught; He crossed himself amain: "Oh, slave of pelf! 'tis the devil himself To whom thou hast sold thy grain!"
"And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away, With the corn which thou hast sold, If thou let him pay o'er one tester more Than thy settled price in gold."
The farmer gave vent to a loud lament, The wife to a long outcry; Their relish for pig and ale was flown; The friar alone picked every bone, And drained the flagon dry.
The friar was gone: the morning dawn Appeared, and the stranger's wain Come to the hour, with six-horse power, To fetch the purchased grain.
The horses were black: on their dewy track Light steam from the ground up-curled; Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke, And their tails like torches whirled.
More dark and grim, in face and limb, Seemed the stranger than before, As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, Drew up to the farmer's door.