I am a friar of orders gray:
As down the valley I take my way
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison does fill my scrip:
My long bead-roll I merrily chaunt,
Where'er I walk, no money I want;
And why I'm so plump the reason I'll tell—
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire
Or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy friar!
After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.
Myself, by denial, I mortify
With a dainty bit of warden pie;
I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin:
With old sack wine I'm lined within:
A chirping cup is my matin song
And the vesper bell is my bowl's ding dong.
What baron or squire
Or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy friar!
From 1000 YEARS OF Irish Poetry
(Konecky & Konecky, 1947)
