A snail, who had a way, it seems,
Of dreaming very curious dreams,
Once dreamed he was—you’ll
never guess!—
The Lightning Limited Express!
A snail, who had a way, it seems,
Of dreaming very curious dreams,
Once dreamed he was—you’ll never guess!—
The Lightning Limited Express!
A snail, who had a way, it seems,
Of dreaming very curious dreams,
Once dreamed he was—you’ll
never guess!—
The Lightning Limited Express!
Beneathe an ancient oake one daye
A holye friar kneeled to praye;
Scarce hadde he mumbled Aves three,
When lo! a voice within the tree!
Straighte to the friar’s hearte it wente,
A voice as of some spirit pente
Within the hollow of the tree,
That cried, “Good father, sette me free!”
Quoth he, “This hath an evil sounde.”
Ande bente him lower to the grounde.
But ever tho’ he prayed, the more
The voice hys pytie didde implore,
Untyl he raised hys eyes ande there
Behelde a mayden ghostlie faire.
Thus to the holy manne she spoke:
“Within the hollow of this oak,
Enchanted for a hundred yeares,
Have I been bounde—yet vain my teares;
Notte anything can breake the banne
Till I be kiss’d by holye manne.”
“Woe’s me!” thenne sayd the friar; “if thou
Be sente to tempt me breake my vowe;
Butte whether mayde or fiende thou be,
I’ll stake my soul to sette thee free.”
The holye manne then crossed hym thrice,
And kissed the mayde—when in a trice
She vanished—
“Heaven forgive me now!”
Exclaimed the friar—“my broken vowe.
“If I have sinned—I sinned to save
Another fromme a living grave.”
Thenne downe upon the earth he felle,
And prayed some sign that he might telle
If he were doomed for-evermore;
When lo! the oake, alle bare before,
Put forth a branch of palest greene,
And fruited everywhere betweene
With waxen berries, pearlie white,
A miracle before hys sight.
The holye friar wente hys waye
And told hys tale—
And from thatte daye
It hath been writ that anye manne
May blamelesse kiss what mayde he canne
Nor any one shall say hym “no”
Beneath the holye mistletoe.
One day beneathe a willowe tree,
Love met a mayde moste faire to see;
“Come play at hyde and seeke,” cried he.
“With alle my hearte!”—quoth she.
“I’m it!” Love cries, and rounde hys eyes
A scarfe the maiden bindeth,
And inne and oute and rounde aboute
Ye willowe trees he windeth—
Yette ne’er the maiden findeth.
Stille inne and oute and rounde aboute,
And stille no maiden meetinge;
Till, piqued, ye rogue unbinds hys eyes,
And, perched upon a branch, espies
Ye mayde retreatinge;
“Fie! Fie!” cries Love—“you’re cheetinge!”
“Now, you,” quothe he, “must seeke for me!”
She binds her eyes, assentinge,
And inne and oute and rounde aboute,
Seeks she for Love relentinge—
But Love, they say—alas, ye day!
Has spread his wings and flown away,
And left ye mayde lamentinge,
And left ye mayde repentinge.