He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,

For every man’s house is the Barefooted Friar’s.

He’s expected at noon, and no wight till he comes

May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums;

For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,

Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

He’s expected at night, and the pasty’s made hot,

They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,

And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,

Ere he lack’d a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,

The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;