Hark, knave-bairns, hark ye weel,
Whan winter byteth toe and heel,
Whan swyn lie warme and men lie cold,
And piss i’ þe pot turneth rimy-old.
Shut þy gobbe and bar þe dore,
For Grundfarver walketh atte moor.
Old Grundfarver, grey o’ beard,
By wife and goose and priest y-feared,
Cometh whan þe church-bell cracketh,
And summat wet behind him slakketh.
Clop, clop, goeth hys wodden shoon.
No man seeth him under noon.
A leaden bell hangeth at hys knee,
And what it calleth—God save thee.
“Bairn,” quoth he, “hast swept þe ash?
Hast fed þe sow and emptied trash?
Hast minded Mam and bowed to Da?
Or stol’n þe cheese and blamed þe ca’?”
For Grundfarver knoweth every trick,
Who stole an egg, who kicked þe dick—
The cock, I mean, thou gutter-head!
Get thee hence and make thy bed.
He knoweth who hath pissed i’ þe ale,
Who loosed þe reeve’s old milking-pail,
Who put a turd beneath þe stool
And swore Saint Dunstan played þe fool.
“Heh! Not I!” saith Hans þe Red.
“Not me!” saith Ulf from under bed.
“By Mary’s bum, I tell thee true!”
Then under þe floor—
glup.
glup.
shluu.
For under midden, sty and byre,
Under dung and dead hearth-fire,
Beneath þe turnip, bone and clot,
Squatteth Grundfarver’s Shoggvth.
No eyen hath it.
Yet it spies.
No nose hath it.
Yet smelleth lies.
No mouth men ken—
yet gobbeth wide
When naughty bairns be put inside.
Black as ditch-mud.
Soft as suet.
Kick it once—
thou shalt rue it.
It bubbleth like þe brewer’s vat,
Only brewer’s beer ne winketh back.
Grete Gerta stole þe priest his hen.
Young Klaus shat i’ þe well agen.
Peder brake þe widow’s gate.
Hanne ate what was not on her plate.
Little Knut cried:
“Bollocks! Nay!”
Grundfarver came that selfsame day.
Three knocks gave he upon þe plank.
Tok.
Tok.
TONK.
And all þe house of brimstone stank.
“Who be there?” called Mutter Bess.
“Taxman?”
“Nay.”
“Þe Pest?”
“Much less.”
“Then sod thee off, whoever thou art!”
Grundfarver laughed:
“I seek thy brat.”
Down þe stair by tallow gleam,
Past salted cod and soured cream,
Past sausage-hook and cabbage bin,
Past Grandam’s teeth kept in a tin.
Down where þ’ midden sweats and steams,
Where beetles hatch their little dreams,
There Grundfarver lifts hys sack.
Naughty bairns come seldom back.
Some say bones come up in spring.
Some say that is no such thing.
Some say old Lars found half a shoe.
Lars drinks hard.
So who knows true?
But good bairns, mark, have better lot—
Though “better” meaneth not much, God wot.
Good bairns rise ere cock hath crowed,
Haul þe dung and mend þe road,
Scrape þe pot and feed þe sow,
And never ask where bad bairns go.
They churn þe butter.
Skim þe whey.
Carry grandfather’s fleas away.
Pick þe lice from Bruder’s hood.
Say “aye” when told.
For aye is good.
And when seven winters they have seen,
And noses run but souls stay clean,
Grundfarver cometh, scrubbed and spruce,
Smelling faintly of boiled goose.
“Ho, good bairns! Up ye get.
Thy King hath need of servants yet.”
He washeth each in juniper smoke,
Giveth each a yellow cloak,
A hempen belt, a midden-spoon,
And sends them marching by þe moon.
North they fare by bog and fen,
Past þe graves of nameless men,
Past þe gallows, black and high,
Where three old thieves teach crows to fly.
Past þe kirk where no priest sings,
Past þe mere where dead ice rings,
Past þe stone that saith:
GO BACK.
Naturally, they leave þe track.
At last they come where no road goeth,
Where neither wheat nor thistle groweth,
Where stars hang wrong and winds speak low:
There dwelleth þe King in Y’ellou.
No hall hath he.
No roof.
No wall.
Yet somehow hath he got them all.
No throne men see.
No crown men ken.
Yet kings be kings to little men.
Upon hys lap þe good bairns creep—
Not for cuddles.
Nay.
For keep.
There midden-servants shall they be,
From winter dusk till eternity.
They rake þe ash.
They scrape þe plate.
They empty pots outside þe gate.
They polish bones with greasy rag.
They feed black worms from yellow bag.
They sweep þe steps that are not there.
They comb þe King’s invisible hair.
And when he saith:
“Who serveth me?”
Each bairn cries:
“ME, LORD!”
Properly.
Thus old wives croak beside þe flame,
And grandsires fart and say þe same:
“Good bairns serve.
Bad bairns feed.
That be all a bairn need heed.”
So mind þy Mam.
Obey þy Da.
Do not put frogs in Grandam’s bra.
Steal not sausage.
Pinch not pie.
Never swear Saint Olaf’s eye.
Piss in pot and shit in pit.
If thou breakest summat, own to it.
For every lie and secret blot
Maketh fat old Shoggvth hot.
And if at night beneath thy bed
Thou hearest summat soft and dread—
Shlukka.
Floppa.
Glub-glub-glub.
Do not reach beneath, thou grub.
Pull thy blanket o’er thy head.
Say thy pater.
Play thou dead.
For better cold toes,
better flea,
better Mam thrash arse of thee,
better muck and mangel-wurzel,
better Brother’s Sunday gruel—
Than hear by door,
through crack and rafter,
Grundfarver’s bell—
and wet thing after.
Clop.
Clop.
Glup.
Amen.