Beneathe an ancient oake one daye

A holye friar kneeled to praye;

Scarce hadde he mumbled Aves three,

When lo! a voice within the tree!

Straighte to the friar’s hearte it wente,

A voice as of some spirit pente

Within the hollow of the tree,

That cried, “Good father, sette me free!”

Quoth he, “This hath an evil sounde.”

Ande bente him lower to the grounde.

But ever tho’ he prayed, the more

The voice hys pytie didde implore,

Untyl he raised hys eyes ande there

Behelde a mayden ghostlie faire.

Thus to the holy manne she spoke:

“Woe’s me!” thenne sayd the friar; “if thou

Be sente to tempt me breake my vowe;

Butte whether mayde or fiende thou be,

I’ll stake my soul to sette thee free.”

The holye manne then crossed hym thrice,

And kissed the mayde—when in a trice

She vanished—

“Heaven forgive me now!”

Exclaimed the friar—“my broken vowe.

“If I have sinned—I sinned to save

Another fromme a living grave.”

Thenne downe upon the earth he felle,

And prayed some sign that he might telle

If he were doomed for-evermore;

When lo! the oake, alle bare before,

Put forth a branch of palest greene,

And fruited everywhere betweene

With waxen berries, pearlie white,

A miracle before hys sight.

The holye friar wente hys waye

And told hys tale—

And from thatte daye

It hath been writ that anye manne

May blamelesse kiss what mayde he canne

Nor any one shall say hym “no”

Beneath the holye mistletoe.