The Man On The Moon
The man on the moon stands and strides;
On a forked stick he bears his burden;
It’s a wonder he doesn’t drop;
For fear he’ll fall he shakes and swerves.
When the frost falls he freezes;
The terrible thorns tear him apart.
There’s no man alive who knows when he rests,
Or–unless it’s a hedge–what clothes he has.
Where do you think this man goes?
He sets one foot in front of the other;
He looks like he’s sweating; I see him shake;
He’s the slowest man ever born.
He slumps on his stick like a grey friar.
This bent bum is always worried.
It’s many days ago since he was here.
That man up there was here
Before he made the moon his home.
Once on a Sunday he was fixing his fence,
Hoping thorns would stop the holes;
He makes bundles with his two-bited ax
So the cows wouldn’t eat his corn.
He wasn’t lucky in his work:
He cut those briars on a Sabbath
And was therefore sentenced by a harsh judge.
But, hey, come down, get that judge,
Lift your leg, step over the sty.
We’ll have the judge over to my house
And settle him down with the finest,
Drink to him dearly with good booze,
And my wily wife’ll sit by him.
When the man’s drunk as a drowned mouse
We’ll have him lighten your load.
But the Man on the Moon doesn’t hear me yelling;
I think the low-life’s deaf; the devil take him!
No matter how I holler, he won’t hurry;
The meely-mouth doesn’t have manners.
Hump on, Hubert, you hoarse magpie!
I’ve had it up to here!
I’m so mad my mouth’s locked;
That lout won’t come down till day dawns.
The Man in the Moon
Mon in þe mone stond & strit,
on is bot-forke is burþen he bereþ;
Hit is muche wonder þat he nadoun slyt,
for doute leste he valle, he shoddreþ ant shereþ.
When þe forst freseþ, muche chele he byd;
þe þornes beþ kene is hattren to-tereþ.
Nis no wyþt in þe world þat wot wen he syt,
ne, bote hit bue þe hegge, whet wedes he wereþ.
Whider trowe þis mon ha þe wey take?
he haþ set is o fot is oþer to-foren;
ffor non hiþte þat he haþ ne syþ me hym ner shake,
he is þe sloweste mon þat euer wes yboren.
Wher he were o þe feld þycchynde stake
for hope, of ys þornes to dutten is doren,
He mot myd is twybyl oþer trous make,
oþer al is dayes werk þer were yloren.
Ðis ilke mon vpon heh when-er he were,
wher he were y þe mone boren and yfed,
He leneþ on is forke ase a grey frere.
Ðis crokede caynard sore he is adred,
Hit is mony day go þat he was here.
ichot of is ernde he naþ nout ysped,
He haþ hewe sumwher a burþen of brere;
þare-fore sum hayward hap taken ys wed.
3ef þy wed ys ytake, bring hom þe trous,
sete forþ þyn oþer fot, stryd ouer sty.
We shule preye þe haywart hom to vr hous
ant maken hym at heyse for þe maystry,
Drynke to hym deorly of fol god bous,
ant oure dame douse shal sitten hym by.
When þat he is dronke ase a dreynt mous
þenne we schule borewe þe wed ate bayly.
Ðis mon hereþ me nout þah ich to hym crye;
ichot þe cherl is def, þe del hym to-drawe!
Ðah ich 3e3e vpon heh nulle nout hye
þe lostlase ladde con nout o lawe.
Hupe for þe hubert, hosede pye!
ichot þart a-marscled in-to þe mawe.
Ðah me teone wiþ hym þat myn teh mye,
þe cherld nul nout adoun er þe day dawe.