Goblins came, on mischief bent,
To Saint Anthony in Lent.

‘Come, ye goblins, small and big,
We will kill the hermit's pig.

‘While the good monk minds his book,
We, the hams will cure and cook.

‘While he goes down on his knees,
We will fry the sausages.

‘While he on his breast doth beat,
We will grill the tender feet.

‘While he David's Psalms doth sing,
We will all to table bring.’

On his knees went Anthony
To those imps of Barbary.

‘Good, kind goblins, spare his life,
He to me is child and wife.

‘He indeed is good and mild
As 'twere any chrisom child.

‘He is my felicity,
Spare, oh spare my pig to me!’

But the pig they did not spare,
Did not heed the hermit's prayer.

They the hams did cure and cook,
Still the good Saint read his book.

When they fried the sausages,
Still he rose not from his knees.

When they grilled the tender feet
He ceasèd not his breast to beat.

They did all to table bring,
He for grace the Psalms did sing.

All at once the morning broke,
From his dream the monk awoke.

There in the kind light of day
Was the little pig at play.