From the hagg and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, The spirit that stands by the naked man In the Book of Moones defend yee, That of your five sounde sences You never be forsaken, Nor wander from yourselves with Tom Abroad to begg your bacon. While I do sing ‘Any foode, any feeding, Feeding, drinke, or clothing?’ Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure nothing. Of thirty bare years have I Twice twenty been enragèd, And of forty bin three tymes fifteene In durance soundlie cagèd In the lordlie loftes of Bedlam, With stubble softe and dainty, Brave braceletts strong, sweet whips ding-dong, With wholsome hunger plenty. And now I sing ‘Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing?’ Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure nothing. With a thought I tooke for Maudlin And a cruse of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, skie blesse you all, I befell into this dotage. I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I never wakèd. Till the rogysh boy of love where I lay Me found and strip’t mee naked. And now I sing ‘Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing.?’ Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure nothing. When short I have shorne my sowre face And snigg’d my hairy barrel, In an oaken inne I pound my skin As a suite of gilt apparell. The moon's my constant Mistrisse And the lowlie owle my morrowe; The flaming Drake and the Nightcrowe make Me musicke to my sorrowe. While I do sing ‘Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing?’ Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure nothing. The palsie plagues my pulses When I prigg your pigs or pullen, Your culvers take, or matchles make Your Chanticleare or sullen. When I want provant with Humfrie I sup, and when benighted, I repose in Powles with waking soules, Yet nevere am affrighted. But I do sing ‘Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing?’ Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure nothing. I knowe more than Apollo, For oft when hee ly’s sleeping, I see the starres att bloudie warres In the wounded welkin weeping; The moone embrace her shepheard And the queen of Love her warryor, While the first doth borne the star of morne And the next the heavenly Farrier. While I do sing ‘Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink, or clothing?’ Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure nothing. The Gipsie, Snap and Pedro Are none of Tom's comradoes; The punk I skorne and the cut purse sworn And the roaring boyes bravadoes. The meeke, the white, the gentle Me handle, touch and spare not; But those that crosse Tom Rynosseross Doe what the panther dare not. Although I sing ‘Any food, any feeding, 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 speare and a horse of aire, To the wildernesse I wander. By a knight of ghostes and shadowes I summon’d am to tourney Ten leagues beyond the wild world's end-- Me thinke it is noe 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. 16th century= Leon Fernandez