He fiddled at the Rose;

And where they have buried him

Not a soul knows.

All his tunes are dead and gone, dead as yesterday.

And his lanthorn flits no more

Round the Devil Tavern door,

Waiting till the gallants come, singing from the play;

Waiting in the wet and cold!

All his Whitsun tales are told.

He is dead and gone, sirs, very far away.

He would not give a silver groat

For good or evil weather.

23

23

He carried in his white cap

A long red feather.

He wore a long coat

Of the Reading-tawny kind,

And darned white hosen

With a blue patch behind.

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