Whether it be scholastic exercises composed in Tynan, the bawdy lyrics of wandering minstrels, sacred verse written by holy monks, or lively folksongs, people in Frilond love word-play of all sorts. And no thing fills me with such longing As that thing I cannot have. And so the stone Was left alone, Fa, la, la, la, lal, de. The Cuckoo Song Sing, cuckoo, now. Sing, cuckoo now.
Seed grows and meadow blows And springs the wood now.
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's. He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires, For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's. And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire, Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar. The small rain down canst rain. He'd trade the sword that now he bore To see the tower but one time more.