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'He was not able to forbear,
'but danc'd the bush about;
'His hands and eyes the brier tore,
'and scratch'd him by the snout.
'A woeful pickle he was in,
'with dancing through and through;
'His cloaths is tore, and then his skin,
'his privy members too
'Run down with streams of purple gore,
'his bum did likewise bleed;
'All over him he was as sore,
'as if he had been dead.
'The fryar skip'd and caper'd high,
'while Jack he laughing stands,
'The fryar then aloud did cry,
'and held up both his hands.
'Sweet gentle John some pity take,
'and lay your piping by;
'Even for dear St. Francis's sake,
'let me not dancing die.
'Qouth he I'll not wrong you, no,
'if thou wilt set me free:
'O then said Jack, I'll let thee go,
'pray come no more to me.
'Out of the bush the fryar came,
'all in a tattered trim;
'With a tore shirt and bloody bones,
'no bedlam like to him.
'Some people did before him flee,
'some pelted him with stones:
'For most of them took him to be
'raw head and bloody bones.
'Then home he went with scarce a rag,
'to hide his naked back,
'Thus he had little cause to brag,
'how he had crippled Jack.
'The step mother fretted at heart,
'to see him in that case,
