Above the wood a cloister towers,
   Gilt window it displays;
There lie before it Kempions twelve,
   The cloister they will raze.

There lie before it Kempions twelve,
   The cloister down will tear;
The oxen and the cows they slew
   The monks should have for fare.

The monk he out of the window looked,
   Then shook both beam and wall:
“And be the Kemps no more than twelve,
   I’ll easily tame them all.”

The monk he called to his serving lad:
   “My club go fetch me in,
For I will out to the forest straight
   And make them cease their din.”

It took fifteen to bring the club,
   And they strain’d all their might;
The monk took it up with fingers two
   And swung it round so light.

He takes the club upon his back
   And into the wood he’s gone,
And there met him the Kempions twelve
   Would fain set him upon.

They drew a circle on the ground,
   And each one troll’d a song;
I tell to ye for verity
   He silenced them all ere long.

First slew he four, then slew he five,
   At length he all has slain;
It was the monk of the shaven crown
   Would gladly fight again.

It was the monk of the shaven crown
   Would seek for another fray,
So out of the wood across the wold
   He blythely took his way.

So blythely out of the good green wood
   He sped across the hill,
And there met him a hoary Trold
   Whose name was Sivord Gill.

“If thou art the monk of the shaven crown
   Who scath’d the warrior band,
Thou either from me shalt shamefully flee
   Or manfully ’gainst me stand.”

“I am the monk of the shaven crown
   Who slew the warrior band,
And never from thee will I shamefully flee
   But like a man will stand.”

The first blow gave the Trold, it fell
   Upon the monk’s shoulder down,
’Midst of his shoulder broke the skin,
   Bebloodied was his gown.

The next blow gave the monk, it struck
   The Trold to the verdant sward:
“Now shame befall thee, shaven Monk,
   The blows of thy club are hard.

“Now hold thy hand, thou shaven Monk,
   And do not strike me more,
And I will give thee silver and gold,
   And of coin a plenteous store.”

The Monk he ran, the Trold he crept,
   Still equal was their height;
Then shewed he him a little house
   With doors of gold so bright.

Then shewed he him a little house
   With golden doors fifteen;
There got the Monk of silver and gold
   All he could wish I ween.

Seven lasts of silver, seven of gold,
   To the cloisters he caus’d convey;
He bade them find a monk could wield
   A club in as brave a way.

’Twas drawing fast to an evening hour
   And the sun went down to rest,
Still fifteen Roman miles the monk
   To the cloister had at least.

’Twas tending fast to the evening tide
   And the sun to the earth did haste,
Yet he seized the first dish at the supper board
   Ere the Abbot could get a taste.

Full fifteen monks he knock’d down when
   No pottage he espied,
And up he hung fifteen because
   The herrings were not fried.

Then out and spoke the little boy
   Who waited at the meal:
“Each time the monk to the cloister comes
   He thus with us will deal.”

And it was getting late at night
   And folks to bed should hie,