Mad Tom of Bedlam

For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand miles I've travelled.
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes,
For to save her shoes from gravel

Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

I went down to Satan's Kitchen
For to get me food one morning
And there I got souls piping hot
All on the spit a-turning

Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

There I took up a cauldron
Where boiled ten thousand harlots
Though full of flame I drank the same
To the health of all such varlets

Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

My staff has murdered giants
My bag a long knife carries
To cut mince pies from children's thighs,
And feed them to the faeries

Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

The spirits white as lightening
Will on my travels guide me
The stars would shake and the moon would quake
Whenever they espied me

Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

And when that I'll be murdering
The man in the moon to a powder
His staff I'll break and his dog I'll shake
And there'll howl no demon louder

Other verses, taken from from Ed Freeman's "Our House" website. This thanks thanks to Germán Santanilla for additional verses and the alternative chorus. "There are about 150 verses to the thing, here are a bunch" (Lorraine a' Malena Official Website)

Alternative Chorus

While I do sing, any food
Feeding drink or clothing?
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing..

No gypsy, slut or doxy
Shall win my mad Tom from me
I'll weep all night, with stars I'll fight
The fray shall well become me.

From the hag and hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye,
All the sprites that stand by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye.

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 waked,
Till the naked boy of love where I lay
Me found and stript me naked.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at mortal 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 morn,
And the next the heavenly farrier.

Of thirty years have I
Twice twenty been enragéd
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly cagéd

On the lordly lofts of Bedlam
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding-dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.

When I short have shorn my sour-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 lonely owl my marrow;
The flaming drake and the night crow make
Me music to my sorrow.

With a host 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.

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 Humphry
I sup, an when benighted
I repose in Paul's with waking souls,
Yet never am affrighted.

The Gipsy Snap an Pedro
Are none of Tom's comradoes,
The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn
And the roaring boy's bravadoes.

The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle not nor spare not;
But those that cross Tom Rhinoceros
Do what the panther dare not

That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken,
Nor wander from your selves with Tom
Abroad to beg your bacon.

I now reprent that ever
Poor Tom was so disdain-ed
My wits are lost since him I crossed
Which makes me thus go chained

So drink to Tom of Bedlam
Go fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, well brewed with gall
And maudlin drunk I'll quarrel

Dick Eney on the Minstrel mailing list (7.2.1997) says there were two separate songs. The following contains most of the "alternative" verses above: This may be the version from Giles Earle His Booke (1615) Manuscript collection of lyrics made by G. Earle, Additional MS. 24, 665 in the British Museum. Printed version: Edited by Peter Warlock [Pseudonym]. [Revised for the press by Bernard van Dieren.] Published by Houghton Publishing Co., London: 1932. 144 pages. (Copac Catalogue) One of the best? Follow "The Masters" link

Tom O'Bedlam's Song

From the hagg and hungrie goblin
That into raggs would rend ye,
And the spirit that stands by the naked man
In the Book of Moones - defend ye!
That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken,
Nor wander from your selves with Tom
Abroad to beg your bacon.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I
Twice twenty been enraged,
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly caged.
On the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips ding-dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With a thought I took 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 waked, Till the roguish boy of love where I lay Me found and stript me naked.

Maudlin - a prostitute. Cockle pottage could be venereal disease (cockles: the labia minor)

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

When I short have shorne my sowre 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 Mistrisse,
And the lowly owl my morrowe,
The flaming Drake and the Nightcrow make
Me music to my sorrow.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke 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 matchless make
Your Chanticleers, or sullen.
When I want provant, with Humfrie
I sup, and when benighted,
I repose in Powles with waking souls
Yet never am affrighted.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft, when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping,
The moone embrace her shepherd
And the queen of Love her warrior,
While the first doth horne the star of morne,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The Gipsie Snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom's companions.
The punk I skorne and the cut purse sworne
And the roaring boyes bravadoe.
The meek, the white, the gentle,
Me handle touch and spare not
But those that crosse Tom Rynosseros
Do what the panther dare not.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With a host 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 ghostes and shadowes
I summon'd am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wild world's end.
Methinks it is no journey.

While I doe sing "any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing,"
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

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