Farewell, rewards and fairies,
	          Good housewives now may say,
	   For now foul sluts in dairies
	          Do fare as well as they;
	   And though they sweep their hearths no less
	          Than maids were wont to do,
	   Yet who of late for cleanliness
	          Finds sixpence in her shoe?
	          
	   Lament, lament, old abbeys,
	          The fairies' lost command,
	   They did but change priests' babies,
	          But some have changed your land;
	   And all your children stol'n from thence
	          Are now grown puritanes
	   Who live as changelings ever since
	          For love of your domains.
	          
	   At morning and at evening both
	          You merry were and glad;
	   So little care of sleep and sloth
	          These pretty ladies had;
	   When Tom came home from labor,
	          Or Ciss to milking rose,
	   Then merrily went their tabor
	          And nimbly went their toes.
	          
	   Witness those rings and roundelays
	          Of theirs which yet remain
	   Were footed in Queen Mary's days
	          On many a grassy plain.
	   But since of late Elizabeth
	          And later James came in,
	   They never dance on any heath
	          As when the time had been.
	          
	   By which we note the fairies
	          Were of the old profession,
	   Their songs were Ave Maries,
	          Their dances were procession;
	   But now alas, they all are dead
	          Or gone beyond the seas,
	   Or further from religion fled,
	          Or else they take their ease.

	   A tell-tale in their company
		  They never could endure;
	   And who kept not secretly
		  Their mirth, was punish'd sure.
	   It was a just and Christian deed
		  To pinch such black and blue;
	   O how the common wealth doth need
		  Such justices as you!

	   Now they have left our quarters
		  A register they have,
	   Who looketh to their charters,
		  A man both wise and grave;
	   An hundred of their merry pranks
		  By one that I could name
	   Are kept in store, conn twenty thanks
		  To William for the same.

	   I marvel who his cloak would turn
		  When Puck had led him round,
	   Or where those walking fires would burn,
		  Where Cureton would be found;
	   How Broker would appear to be,
		  For whom this age doth mourn;
	   But that their spirits live in thee,
		  In thee, old William Chourne.

	   To William Chourne of Strafford shire
		  Give laud and praises due,
	   Who ever meal can mend your cheer
		  With tales both old and true:
	   To William all give audience,
		  And pray ye for his noddle,
	   For all the fairies' evidence
		  Were lost, if that were addle.

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