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; For to gather life’s roses, unscathed by the briar, Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

“By my troth,” said the knight, “thou hast sung well and lustily, and in high praise of thine order. And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk, are you not afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of your uncanonical pastimes?”

“I uncanonical!” answered the hermit; “I scorn the charge⁠—I scorn it with my heels!⁠—I serve the duty of my chapel duly and truly⁠—Two masses daily, morning and evening, primes, noons, and vespers, aves, credos, paters⁠—”

“Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison is in season,” said his guest.