Full Lyrics
Itte was the tyme when fatte folke blowe,
And gape and pante for lackke of aire,
Some frendes didde mete in a farmyarde swete,
Al to view a calfe of beautie rare.
Itts ownere hight was Symkynne Tyghte,
Proude manne was hee al for the nones;
One enviouse frende was Tummas Wende,
And eke anothere, Wattkynne Jones.
’Tis a fine calfe,
Butte mee no buttes,
Too fatte bye halfe.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
’Tis goode, ’tis goode to laugghe.
Now Tummas lovedde a merrie joake,
And so to Wattkynne homeward bente,
“Give mee goode hede,” ‘twas thus hee spoke,
“For to playye a trickke is my intente.
In a week, you knowe, the cattel showe,
And Tyghte dothe wel consider thatte
A pryze hee’ll gayne, withouten payne,
For thys hys calfe so wondrouse fatte.”
’Tis a fine calfe,
Butte mee no buttes,
Too fatte bye halfe.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
’Tis goode, ’tis goode to laugghe.
“Now craftillie togethere wee
Muste steale thys calfe the nighte before;
Then come wyth mee to yon hostelrie,
And there wee’ll talke thys mattere o’ere.”
And o’ere a cuppe of Malvoisie
They ’rang’d the geste ful wel and ryghte;
Butte they wotte notte that nere the spotte
To overheare was Symkynne Tyghte.
’Tis a fine calfe,
Butte mee no buttes,
Too fatte bye halfe.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
’Tis goode, ’tis goode to laugghe.
The nighte was darke for thys smal larke,
They softlie crepte into the stalle;
Then, unseene, Tyghte, wyth muche delyghte,
Ryghte deftlie lockk’dde the doore on alle.
Now, fore the calfe, wyth chucklynge laugghe,
Hee’d plac’dde inside a myghtie goate—
Boathe ferce and stronge, wyth hornes ful longe,
And sooth for buttynge hadde greate noate.
Then Tummas oped hys darke lanterne,
Atte hym the goate doth charge ful tylte,
Wyth wrathe and rage the goate dothe burne,
And Tummas yell’dde, “Certes I’m kilt!”
Butte, butte, butte, butte,—
Too stronge bye halfe.
“Oh stryke a lyghte! an eville spryte
Hath gotte inside thys seely calfe!”
Wyth deadlie feare outdide they heare
The echo of a mockkynge laugghe.
When Wattkynne litte the lampe anon,
The lustie goate dothe atte hym flye;
In hys stommackke hee butteth smackke,
Hee groaneth more and downe dothe lye.
They trye the doore, butte alle in vaine,
Yet notte in vaine the goate doth butte,
“Oh woeful geste!” they shrieke amaine
“Some demonne sure keepeth it shutte.”
Butte, butte, butte, butte,—
Too stronge bye halfe.
Anon a hushe,— anon a rushe,
A howle, a yelle, “My arme!” “my syde”
“my backke!” “my hedde” ’til, almoste dedde
Wyth laugghtere, Symkynne fairlie cry’dde.
When hee judgg’dde theyre strengthe was nearlie spente,
He sette them free in parlouse payne;
“Oh frendes,” quothe hee, “what do I see?
’Stead of one calfe, why heare bee twayne.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
’Tis goode, ’tis goode to laugghe.
