I am the Friar of Orders gray,
And down in the valley I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, nor hip,
God store of venison does fill my scrip;
My long bead roll I merrily chant,
Where-ever I walk no money I want.

And why I'm so plump, the reason I'll tell:
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What Baron, or Squire, or Knight of the Shire,
Lives half so well as a holy Friar.

After supper, of heav'n I dream,
But that is fat pullets and clouted cream;
Myself by denial I mortify,
With a dainty bit of warden pye;
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth for my sin,
With old sackwine I'm lined within.

A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the Wesper bell is bowl, ding, dong.
What Baron, or Squire, or Knight of the Shire,
Lives half so well as a holy Friar.