Robin Goodfellow

Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide: And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecates team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic: not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowd house: I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Dark musk, moss-covered wood, ragwort, heather, and sage.