Loinsway Knave

Oh, list thee now, ye ale-drenched band,

Of Loinsway’s knave with lily hand,

My brother yon, so pure, so mild,

Hath woo'd and wept each wanton child.

For every maid with flaxen braid,

Hath snared his heart ‘ere debts were paid,

A kiss, a smile, a dowry feigned—

He standeth shorn, his pride disdained.

Woe to thee, sweet brother mine,

With heart so soft and purse so fine!

They took thy bread, thy cloak, thy steed,

And left thee naught but song and need.

He brought them garlands, thyme and rose,

He penned them verse in trembling prose,

But nary one did stay or mourn

When harvest came and love was shorn.

Sweet Elfrith took his silver band,

Then wed a butcher from the Strand;

Young Mirabel did sip his wine,

And spent his coin ‘fore morning’s shine.

Woe to thee, sweet brother mine,

With heart so soft and purse so fine!

They took thy bread, thy cloak, thy steed,

And left thee naught but song and need.

Now sits he lone by chapel door,

With eyes like rain and feet all sore,

Yet still he sings to passing maid—

And still they grin, then flee unpaid.

O heaven guard the foolish kin

Whose soul is light, whose wits be thin,

For village hearts are seldom true

And love, alas, doth make a fool of you.