From the poor man a grain of his salt may suffice,
For your crow swallows all, and is not very nice;
And the man who can now give his grain and no more,
May another day give from a plentiful store.
Come, my lad, to the door, Plutus nods to our wish,
And our sweet little mistress comes out with a dish;
She gives us her figs, and she gives us a smile,
Heaven bless her, and guard her from sorrow and guile;
And send her a husband of noble degree,
And a boy to be danc’d on his grand-daddy’s knee;
And a girl like herself to rejoice her good mother,
Who may one day present her with just such another.
God bless your dear hearts all a thousand times o’er!
Thus we carry our singing to door after door;
Alternately chanting, we ramble along,
And treat all who give, or give not, a song.
The song thus concludes—
My good, worthy masters, a pittance bestow,
Your bounty, my good, worthy mistresses throw;
Remember the crow, he is not very nice,
Do but give as you can, and the gift will suffice.
Pamphilius of Alexandria, in his chapter on names, says these men making collections for the crow, were called coronistæ, or crow-mummers; and their songs were named coronismata, as Hagnooles, the Rhodian, relates in his work, entitled “Coronistæ.”
I am, &c.
J. H. B.