By a mushroom in the moon,
White as bud from budded berry,
Silver buckles on my shoon,—
Ho! the moon shines merry.
Here I sit and drink my grog,—
Stocks and tunic ouphen yellow,
Skinned from belly of a frog,—
Quite a fine, fierce fellow.
My good cloak a bat's wing gave,
And a beetle's wings my bonnet,
And a moth's head grew the brave,
Gallant feather on it.
Faith! I have rich jewels rare,
Rings and carcanets all studded
Thick with spiders’ eyes, that glare
Like great rubies blooded.
And I swear, sirs, by my blade,
“Sirrah, a good stabbing hanger!” —
From a hornet's stinger made,—
When I am in anger.
Fill the lichen pottles up!
Honey pressed from hearts of roses;
Cheek by jowl, up with each cup
Till we hide our noses.
Good, sirs!— marry!—‘ tis the cock!
Hey, away! the moon's lost fire!
Ho! the cock our dial and clock —
Hide we‘ neath this brier.