Classic Poem

In a shady nook, with his learned book,
The friar sat with a sanctified look;
By his side was rod that was shaped like a crook,
Tied to which was a line and a well-baited hook
Which he dipped in the stream of a rippling brook.
Now this friar, no doubt, is a lover of trout,
For he chuckles with joy as he 's pulling them out;
For this savoury fish makes a delicate dish,
As nice as the greatest of monarchs could wish.
But there 's one thing he fears--
It may come to the ears
Of the Abbot severe,
Who would make him pay dear
For thus giving way to his base appetite!
When he knows very well
He should be in his cell,
And not thus be staying
The forest away in,
In the hope that a nibble may end in a bite.
For this Abbot was such a strict disciplinarian
That roast beef he scorned as the foulest of carrion.
His food was the coarsest of bread, and boil'd rice,
And half-dirty water, which could not be nice.
And had he but known that the friar ate trout,
Would have made a most terrible riot and rout;
And would not have been quiet
Till he'd alter'd his diet,
And promised he'd never go angling more.
Which to one of his taste, you may be pretty sure,
Would have been a great bother, a plague, and a bore.

'T was a morning in May,
And a beautiful day,
The little cock sparrows were chirping away,
When the friar, awoke by the birds or the fleas,
Quickly rose, gave a yawn, and a cough and a sneeze,
And threw himself into his clothes with great ease.
But as he was dressing in very great haste,
Much time spent in washing he thought would be waste;
So a lick and a promise was just to his taste.
For he meant to have rose
Ere the first of the crows
From under her snug wing had popped out her nose.
But to finish a dream he had slumb'ring kept,
And thus, long past the hour he intended, had slept.
So now from his chamber with speed forth he crept,
And bent his course the forest through,
Whose branches, spangled o'er with dew,
Being shook, soon made him sparkle too.
But nought would he heed were he wet to the skin;
It is not for his outside he cares, but his in;
And he thinks of the feast he shall have with a grin
As he reaches the spot in the thick forest where
The trees had been cut down and left a place bare.
And soon his rod finds, which with excellent care
He had hidden, lest others the sport too might share.
As I told you before, by his side was a book;
But not that within it he e'er wished to look,
For his mind was in truth at the point of his hook.
But, to form an excuse,
It might be of great use
If any should happen that part by to stray;
For it then would appear
Unto them very clear,
He to study had fled from the world far away.
Now, lest some fair reader be wishing to hear
How he got his fish dress'd, I will pause awhile here
And explain how it was, though it cause slight delay;
Still in hopes for your patience my tale may repay.
At the back of the wood was a tumble-down dwelling,
But when 'twas erected is now long past telling;
Its roof might with straw, perchance, once have been thatched,
Though now from the rafters 'twas near all detached.
But heather and mud were in place substituted,
Which seemed with the rest of the mansion well suited.
For the windows, with rags stopped to keep out the rain,
Though admitting rheumatics, yet owned not a pane;
While the door from its hinges had gone to supply
A trough for the lady who lived in the sty.
Then as to the garden, 'twas quite a disgrace,
You never beheld such a wild-looking place.
The grass than the flowers had grown somewhat higher,
Entangled with bushes of bramble and brier.
The trees and the bushes were so much neglected
That fruit was ne'er looked for, as 'twas not expected.
The hedges, so fine once, had lost all their beauty,
And look'd like policemen forgetting their duty;
Who would not take even the trouble to keep
Away from the garden the cows and the sheep,
Which over or under would manage to creep,
T' enjoy 'mid the flowers a sweet fragrant sleep.

Now the Queen of this mansion was Widow O'Neal,
A lady of Irish extraction;
Who often procured our good friar a meal,
Which gave him supreme satisfaction.
For though she a rum 'un might seem to the look,
She was without doubt a most excellent cook;
And could give fish and game such a delicate taste,
That your platter you'd empty in double-quick haste,
Nor a scrap, nor a morsel would e'er chance to waste.
Now of children this widow had four,
As handsome a set as you anywhere saw,
Although you the country have travelled right o'er.
The eldest, her pet, was a beautiful boy,
The pride of his mother, her treasure, her joy;
Whose light hair crept over his head like a mat,
And boasted the 'nomen of "Clever Young Pat."
For he could milk cows, and was once known to try
To milk the old sow, but, alas! found her dry,
So left her in future at rest in her sty.
For birds' nests Pat climbed up the tallest of trees--
The greater the danger the more it would please.
A stranger to fear as to sorrow was he,
For nothing delighted his heart like a spree;
And often, and dearly, his neighbours had rued
The spirits of fun which young Patrick pursued.
Then in racing he'd beat all competitors hollow,
And would leave them behind at a distance to follow.
For he had a knack,
Without e'er a whack,--
As he stuck tight as wax to the animal's back--
To make it proceed
With such rapid speed
That you'd doubt if 'twas really a jackass indeed.

The next two were daughters, and might be called fair,
For brightly would glitter their dark glossy hair,
As bandless and free, by no fetters confined
(Except when a wild flower its sweetness entwined),
'Twas wafted about by the impudent wind.
Then their eyes, black as sloes, with a sweet sunny smile,
Would surely your thoughts for a moment beguile,
And cause you, though hurried, to tarry awhile
To ask the best way to the neighbouring town,
Or frame some excuse from your horse to get down
Just to look at the view from a picturesque stile
Of these two lovely daughters of Erin's green isle.

The widow's fourth child was a delicate boy,
Whose life seemed to hang by a thread;
His ailings and wants both his sisters employ,
Whose love even health seemed to shed.
For as his weak limbs were unable to walk,
They'd carry him up to the top of the hill;
And so would amuse with their innocent talk,
That he'd almost forget what it was to be ill.
And when the sun rose with his hot scorching rays,
They'd seek a cool spot in the forest shade, where
They would sing him to sleep with their sweet native lays,
And watch o'er his slumbers with sisterly care.
Then one would roam forth for his favourite flower,
And twine a fair wreath for his delicate brow;
Or weave round him sleeping a fairy-like bower,
By drooping and tangling the hazel's green bough.

But now to return to our friar, who still
Is trying his utmost to catch and to kill
A few members more of the slippery tribe,
With fine red worms dangling by way of a bribe.

The sun long had risen, whose powerful ray
Has scattered the dew-drops in vapour away;
And though our good friar had chose a snug spot,
O'ershadow'd by trees, yet they sheltered him not
In the midst of the day;
For the sun then that way
Came over the water and stared in his face.
But, a fisherman true,
Though he's roasted quite through,
To give o'er the sport he would think a disgrace;
So he sits down again,
Although fearing 'tis vain,
And for the dead worm puts a fresh in its place.
Then he looks at his fish, which are covered with grass,
(Lest any one rambling should happen to pass),
But he finds there's but two, and those small ones, alas!
So he said, "But one half-hour I'll stay here, and then
If I don't catch another I'll go to my den.
For I might just as well be performing my duty,
As being here roasted and spoiling my beauty.
But let's see, by the bye,
They might rise at a fly--
There's lots on the wing, so I'll catch one and try."
But this bait they refuse,
For they none of them choose
By his kind endeavours existence to lose.
For when he threw fly they would all run away,
Or round it would gambol and sportively play,
But never allowed it to lead them astray.

"Oh, the half-hour has past
And this throw is my last!"
The old friar exclaimed, when his hook was caught fast
By the bough of a tree,
And he could not get free,
Though he tugg'd and used words you shall not hear from me.
But finding his hand must the line disengage,
He turned, much excited (but not in a rage),
When a ghastly hue over his countenance spread,
Before which the colour so instantly fled
That it whitened his nose, which was mostly bright red,
And made him look just like a calf over-bled,
Or a hot piece of pork from a pig too well-fed;
For, suddenly shook by a terrible fright,
Like a gander when seized by a fox late at night,
He discovered his wits had deserted him quite.
For the Abbot he spied,
Who with slow solemn stride
Was approaching, and soon would be close at his side.
How he trembled all o'er, and would gladly have died,
As he thought of escape, but could see no way how;
While the cold perspiration spread over his brow.
Oh, how he then wished that the earth would quake too,
And split a small crack which would just let him through
To shield him from evil he feared would betide,
From which he's unable to run or to hide.
But as to his wishes the earth's disinclined.
He shook himself well, and then struggled to find
What he'd lost in the panic--his presence of mind.
His line then he snaps from its perch with a crack
And throws his rod into the stream with a smack,
Although with the fear of not getting it back
His heart's pit-a-pat, and is quite on the rack.
But he stopped not to think--'twas the work of a minute,
He snatches his book up to see what is in it.
When, as if spiteful Fate had resolved his disgrace,
He finds out 'tis another popped into its place
By young Patrick O'Neal, who had thought it fine fun;
When the friar, not noticing what he had done,
Placed the book in his bosom and bore it away,
After dining, self-asked, at the cottage one day.
But it now is too late,
If unlucky his fate,
There is no time the book now to hide;
For the Abbot's so near,
There would surely appear
Something wrong if to hide it he tried.
So he shut it up gently and seemed wrapt in mystery,
Though all his thoughts dwelt on the marvellous history
Of George and the Dragon, who, Saint though he be,
He heartily wished in the depths of the sea.
Then spake he aloud as the Abbot drew near
(In tones like the crow, as melodious and clear),
As it much was his wish that it plain might appear
That of his good presence he had no idea,
Though he did very well know
He was close at his elbow.
So he moralized thus:
"Oh, that men were like us,
From pleasure abstaining,
From treasure refraining
Their hands and their hearts! but, alas! it is vain in
This earth for perfection to seek.
For all men are for gaining;
Gold by some means obtaining;
Their covetous wishes not once e'er restraining.
Frail mortals, alas, are so weak!"----
Much more he had said, but a touch on the shoulder
Made the blood through each vein run more sluggish and colder.
But starting and turning with well-feigned surprise,
Saw reflected his face in the Abbot's dark eyes.
Then a bow, long and low, to his rev'rence he made--
A rev'rence his rev'rence would always have paid;
For deep in his bosom he cherished the hope,
That, some day or other, they would make him the Pope.
Now the Abbot was tall, and so terribly thin,
That victuals scarce ever, you'd think, were asked in
To fill up the gap 'twixt the bones and the skin.
The little of hair he had left on his crown
Was a dingy short circle of snuff-colour'd brown,
Which straight as the ribs of umbrella hung down.
His teeth good as new were, for, little in use,
They could not well plead that old-fashioned excuse
Of aching, because they're decayed or grown loose.
But his eye was his pride--'twas a regular piercer,
Than even a Cyclops it made him look fiercer;
For it stared every way
At the same time of day,
Nor yet from yourself for a moment would stray.
Now of his left optic I've heard, and don't doubt it,
He really had seen, and looked better without it;
For, besides being not half so big as the other,
It would squint, blink, and wink at its handsome twin brother.

But the mind, after all, is the part of the man
Which beauty should live in--deny it who can.
While the face serves alone for an index to tell
The force of the passions which inwardly dwell.
When all's fair within, it will turn to a smile;
When vexed, it will change to a frown.
If angry, most like 'twill be stormy awhile;
When sad, fast the rain will come down.
But to rambling a truce,
I the reins have let loose,
But my spirited muse I to back must induce.
For all I would say is, an ugly exterior
Is often the fate of a mind that's superior.
Now the Abbot was one whose mind was his forte; he
Could never remember a thing he'd done naughty.
His life would, he said, bear the strictest inspection--
It never could yield an unpleasant reflection,
Because he had brought it so near to perfection.
In languages dead he was learned and skilful;
His head with quotations, in fact, seemed so filled full
That when condescending he happened to speak,
You would nearly be smothered with Latin and Greek.
But as my fair readers may chance to know neither,
I will not here tax their sweet patience with either.
Not because when I was a young one at school
I neglected declension, and grammar, and rule;
But just for this reason, I would not perplex
A specimen fair of the feminine sex,
Who, not fond of skipping, might feel rather vexed
If forced to leap over some old defunct text.



"What dost thou here, Peter?" the Abbot exclaimed;
"Explain, let me see if there's aught to be blamed:
For as What's-his-name says, in his Justice with Jury,
You ne'er at the culprit should fly in a fury,
But hear of the question--both sides ere convicting--
Although you're quite certain which way you'll verdict him."
Then the friar his courage plucked up in a minute,
A mess was before him and he was near in it.
A stroke swift and bold was the only plan waiting
By which he might hope for a safe extricating.
But while thus he was thinking the sage Abbot spoke,
He was three-fourths in earnest but one-fourth in joke--
"What, speechless! then guilty you are I'm quite sure;
For not proving innocent's guilty by law.
As the same author says, who lately I quoted,
Whose works for their truth and great clearness are noted."

"O, help me, dear Fiction!" soliloquised Peter,
(A-muse-meant t'invoke when Miss Truth we would cheat her),
"For without a few fibs I must really confess,
I shall never get out of this terrible mess.
Then aid me, fair maiden, to frame some fine story
To puzzle this old chap who now stands before me."

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