Chorus

I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman; I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman; He’s first at a feast, but he’s last at the cann— I redd you beware o’ Friar Adam, gudeman.

The gudewife can bake, and the gudewife can brew, Can dress up her board with the famed barbecue; Can eke out a table where bishops may dine, And baffle the drawer wi’ hamen-made wine.

The gudewife on Sundays is bonny I trow, Her golden-laced bonnet sits light on her brow; In her fine furred cloak at the preachings she’s seen, And looks like Diana in mantle o’ green.

Friar Adam is learned in Latin and Greek, With his eyes and his fingers he also can speak; ’Tis whisper’d, the priest has a magical e’e, And kens the black art that’s taught over the sea.

Mine host and the baxter grew bright o’er the cann, Till they first miss’d the gudewife, then Friar Adam; The quegh being empty, for liquor they bawl, But nothing but echo replies to their call.

They sought for our Friar by the windings of Tweed, Where they found him laid low like a wind-shaken reed; They found him, O beastly! asleep, sitting squat, Enjoying the dream of a Cardinal’s hat.

They search’d for the gudewife by thicket and loan, Till they found the gay lady a-making her moan; While milking her quey, popp’d a wasp on its tail, When the brute gave a kick, and upset the milk-pail.