Tom o' Bedlam

[Early copy, from Giles Earle's MS, 1615-26. Another early copy in Bodleian MS Tanner 465 is noted in the index to the MS to be "Tom o' Bedlam's Song to K. James". I suspect the song is from a lost comic show, 'Tom of Bedlam', presented at court, Jan. 9, 1618. A lute MS in which the tune appears is said to be of 1613-16. The tune is B467 on my website.]

From the hag and hungry goblin,
That into rags would rend ye,
And the spirit that stands by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye,
That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken
Nor wander from yourselves with Tom,
Abroad to beg your bacon.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeling, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I
Twice twenty been engaged,
And of forty been three time fifteen
In durance soundly caged
On the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.
And now I sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With a thought I took for Maudlin,
And a cruse of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall, sky bless you all.
I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest,
Till then I never waked,
Till th rougish boy of love where I lay
Me found and stripp'd me naked.
And now I sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

When I short have shorn my sour-face,
And swigg'd my horny barrel
In an oaken inn I pound my skin,
As a suit of gilt apparrel
The moon's my constant mistress,
And the lowly owl my morrow;
The flaming drake and the night-crow make
Me music to my sorrrow.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The palsy plagues myy pulses,
When I prig your pigs or pullen,
Your culvers take, or matchless make
Your chanticlere or sullen.
When I want provant, with Humphrey
I sup, and when benighted
I repose in Powles with waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.
But I do sing: Any food,
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping,
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping,
The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the queen of love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
While I do sing: Any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The Gipsy snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom's comrados.
The punk I scorn, and cutpurse sworn,
And the roaring boys bravados.
The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle, touch, and spare not;
But those that cross Tom Rhinoceross
Do what the panther dare not.
Although I sing; any food
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With an host of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summon'd am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end,
Methinks it is no journey.
Yet will I sing: Any food,
Any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.