Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

JACK and Joan, they think no ill,

But loving live, and merry still;

Do their week-day’s work, and pray

Devoutly on the holy day;

Skip and trip it on the green,

And help to choose the Summer Queen;

Lash out at a country feast

Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,

And tell at large a winter tale;

Climb up to the apple loft,

And turn the crabs till they be soft.

Tib is all the father’s joy,

And little Tom the mother’s boy;

All their pleasure is Content;

And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows

And deck her windows with green boughs,

She can wreaths and tutties make,

And trim with plums a bridal cake.

Jack knows what brings gain or loss;

And his long flail can stoutly toss;

Makes the hedge which others break,

And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights,

That study only strange delights;

Though you scorn the home-spun gray

And revel in your rich array;

Though your tongues dissemble deep,

And can your heads from danger keep;

Yet, for all your pomp and train,

Securer lives the silly swain!