Poem of the day

To find Mad Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand years I'll travel.
Mad Maudlin goes with dirty toes,
To save her shoes from gravel.

Yet will I sing, Bonny Boys, bonny Mad Boys,
Bedlam Boys are Bonny.
They still go bare and live by the air
And want no Drink, nor Money.

I now repent that ever
Poor Tom was so disdainèd.
My wits are lost since him I crost,
Which makes me go thus chainèd.

My staff hath murder'd giants,
My bag a long knife carries,
To cut mince pyes from children's thighs,
With which I feast the Faries.

My horn is made of thunder,
I stole it out of Heaven.
The Rainbow there is this I wear,
For which I thence was driven.

I went to Pluto's kitchin,
To beg some food one morning.
And there I got souls piping hot,
With which the spits were turning.

Then took I up a Cauldron,
Where boyl'd ten thousand Harlots.
'Twas full of flame, yet I drank the same
To the health of all such Varlets.

A Spirit hot as lightning
Did in that journey guide me,
The Sun did shake, and the Moon pale quake,
As soon as e'er they spied me.

No gipsy, slut or doxy
Shall wind my Mad Tom from me,
We'll sleep all night, and with Stars fight:
The fray will well become me.

And when that I have beaten
The Man i'th' Moon to powder,
His dog I'll take, and him I'll make
As could no dæmon louder.

A Health to Tom of Bedlam!
Go fill the seas in barrels.
I'll drink it all, well brew'd with gall,
and Maudlin-drunk, I'll quarrel.

Yet will I sing, Bonny Boys, bonny Mad Boys,
Bedlam Boys are Bonny.
They still go bare and live by the air
And want no Drink, nor Money.