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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TOM O' BEDLAM'S SONG, by FRANCIS BEAUMONT Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: From the hag and hungry goblin Last Line: "poor tom will injure nothing." | |||
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 feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing? Come, dame or maid, Be not afraid, Poor Tom Will injure nothing." Of thirty bare years have I Twice twenty been enragéd, And of forty been Three times fifteen In durance sadly cagéd 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 do sing, &c. 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 wakéd, Till the roguish boy Of love where I lay Me found and stript me naked. And now I do sing, &c. When I short have shorn my sow's face And swigged my horny barrel In an oaken inn I pound my skin As a suit of gilt apparel. The moon's my constant mistress And the lowly owl my morrow; The flaming drake And the night-crow makeMe music to my sorrow. While I do sing, & c. The palsy plagues my pulses When I prig your pigs or pullen, Your culvers take, Or matchless make Your chanticleer or sullen— When I want provant with Humphrey I sup, and when benighted, I repose in Paul's With waking souls Yet never am affrighted. But I do sing, &c. 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 the morn And the next the heavenly farrier. While I do sing, &c. The gipsy Snap, and Pedro, Are none of Tom's comradoes; The punk I scorn And the cutpurse sworn And the roaring-boys' bravadoes; The meek, the white, the gentle, Me handle, touch, and spare not, But those that cross Tom Rhinoceros Do what the panther dare not. Although I do sing, &c. With a heart 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 summoned am to tourney Ten leagues beyond The wide world's end —Methinks it is no journey. Yet will I sing, "Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing? Come, dame or maid, Be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE LIFE OF MAN by FRANCIS BEAUMONT ON THE MARRIAGE OF A BEAUTEOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN WITH AN ANCIENT MAN by FRANCIS BEAUMONT SONG, FR. THE LOVER'S PROGRESS by FRANCIS BEAUMONT THE EMANCIPATION OF HIS MISTRESS' PERFECTIONS by FRANCIS BEAUMONT THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE by FRANCIS BEAUMONT THE MAID'S TRAGEDY by FRANCIS BEAUMONT THE RIVER-GOD'S SONG by FRANCIS BEAUMONT THESEUS AND ARIADNE by FRANCIS BEAUMONT |
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