Classic Poem

We must now leave the monk for a moment or two,
And quick after the steps of the Abbot pursue,
Who can very fast walk when he thinks he's not seen,
And is scamp'ring now o'er the meadows (so green),
For he really believed that the friar said true,
That he'd lost the right path which would lead the hut to,
But he felt quite determined to find it.
And although the sun's rays were so scorchingly hot
That he red in the face as a furnace had got,
Yet he seemed not a moment to mind it;
But clambered each hill's side and ran down each hollow,
Oft looking to see if the friar would follow,
Not thinking howe'er he'd be found thus.
But when we do actions of which we're ashamed,
And conscience informs us we ought to be blamed,
We're sure to look anxious around us.
"But had not old Peter abandoned the chase,"
The Abbot exclaimed, "ere I popp'd in his place,
As executor to the old lady?
Then, besides, but a moment or two back he told
That he meant to devote to our use all the gold.
Oh, how conscience soon quieted may be!"

Now the Abbot remembered that somewhere he'd seen
An old tumble-down hut when out rambling he'd been,
Which he thought might be it,--and 'twas, by the bye,
The same Peter had all the while in his eye;
For he had not erected, as Truth must declare,
The castle on clouds up aloft in the air.
But the gold and old lady were really a joke,
And had both been dug out of and buried in smoke.
Then he happened to know,
About eight years ago,
A child had been lost by the Baron--and oh!
He never should think
Old Peter could link
Such strange facts together as well deserved ink.
So his story was true,
For he very well knew
The friar possessed not a grain of romance.
'Tis not book study that
Has made him grow so fat,
'Tis earth's lower pleasures, he fears, does entrance.

Now a distant rise
Presents to the eyes
Of the Abbot the hut, and with joy on he flies;
It is rugged indeed,
But he takes little heed,
Though the walls are of mud, and each flower is a weed.

Not a sound then was heard,
Not a chirp from a bird,
Nor yet from a little grasshopper;
Should he knock at the shed,
Or straight walk in instead?
He wish'd to know which was most proper.
For there spread o'er his heart such a feeling of awe,
He felt nervous whenever he ugly sights saw;
And now p'rhaps the bed must be moved from the hovel,
Before at the gold he can get--then the shovel:
O dear, he's forgot it--oh, what shall he do
If there's none within when he penetrates through?
Then without much dispatch
He uplifted the latch,
When he felt 'gainst his legs such a terrible poke,
That he staggered with fear,
And had swooned away near,
Ere he saw 'twas a pig who inflicted the stroke;
While a rough Irish laugh on his reverie broke,
Whose possessor appeared to enjoy much the joke,
And cried, "Och, the pig has got out of the door!
Why couldn't you make a slight shindy before
You poked in your carcase?--We'd held then his tail--it
Must now be 'gen cotched, or some feller will stale it."
But a terrible frown
From the Abbot proceeded,
And he rustled his gown,
Which at once Loony heeded;
For the priests then were held by the whole of the nation
In the highest respect, and in great veneration.
"Your pardon, your rev'rence, I knew not 'twas you,"
He humbly exclaimed, whilst his head he was scratching.
"Pray do me the honour to step just into
This bit of a dwelling--it p'rhaps may want thatching;
Still the holes in the roof make the fire burn better,
Though rain, than is pleasant oft makes us much wetter."
"No, what I would say I will speak here outside,--
'Tis of the old lady who yesternight died."
"She dead! Oh no, no! Though I oft wished she were,
Still yonder she sits in the corner down there,
On the edge of a tub, for want of a chair."
"Quite true," said the Abbot, "for Socrates tells us,
Old ladies in breath are as lasting as bellows;
But is she not troubled with gout or rheumatic?
Or is she, from rain oft descending, aquatic?
"Rheumatics! yes, sure, there's much truth in that question.
But what is far worse is her pow'rful digestion;
For would ye believe it--within bounds I speak--
A sack of best praties would last but a week,
If she was supplied whene'er victuals she'd seek.
But she gave us last night such a terrible fright,
When we chanced late to come from the wake of old Wright.
For her pains were so bad
That she raved just like mad,
And called for a priest, though no priest could be had.
Still up in the morn she rose better than ever.
Pain never will kill her, I'm certain,--no, never!
She's my mother-in-law, sir, and not my own mother,
Or as welcome she'd be in this world as another."
("Oh, oh!" thought the Abbot, "the way's growing clearer!
I feared I had strayed--but I find the game nearer.")
"She would see then a priest? with her wish I'll comply;
But alone it must be, for should you remain by,
Any facts I would prove she would surely deny,
Though of Mary's great abbey the Primate am I."
"Well, if ever!" said Looney, with a wild kind of stare,
As he bolted inside, crying, "Meg! quick--a chair!
There's the Abbot of Mary's a-standing out there!"
Now that Meg was not well might be very well seen,
She'd been waking too late where she'd yesternight been,
For her eyes were as red as a lobster fresh boiled,
And her nose looked like beetroot in cooking when spoiled;
So she ran in a corner, where safe she might hide
From the flood of reproofs which she feared might betide.
Then enter'd the Abbot, his eyes cast around,
And snug in a corner the old lady found,
While away on an errand had Looney been sent,
To prevent his eaves-dropping--if such his intent.
("That shows skill," thought Ted, "but I yet shall defeat it,
For Meg will hear all, and is sure to repeat it.")
"She sleeps," said the priest, "and I don't like to wake her,
But fear she won't rouse if I try not to make her;
So as time flies fast I will make bold to shake her."
"Fire! thieves!" cried the dame. "O, Meg, what are you arter?
You wicked, ungrateful, neglectful, young darter!
I was dreaming of dinner--oh, such a fine treat!
Not of biled praties only, but roast and biled meat."
"Hush, hush!" said the Abbot, "I've heard your sad story,
And much I was grieved at, but felt sorry for ye."
"Ay, ay," she exclaimed, "did yer spake of the child?
It's nigh broke my heart, and will soon drive me wild.
Though I don't wish to die, yet the dochters can't save,
When there's grief and rheumatics a-digging my grave."
"But the gold," said the Abbot, "I hope it's secure?"
"Did yer spake? Just spake out, for I'm deaf, certain sure."
"Down there?" said he louder, and pointed close by,
"Yes, there, there," she answered, "the creature will lie,
Dead drunk as a baste, while I'm forced to attend
To the cooking and washing, or else a hand lend
For to keep the house tidy, or else the clothes mend:
Yet I get but half-fed,
Whilst she's snoring in bed.
I often have thought I had better be dead."
"Just so," said the priest; "sure the woman's quite mad.
Or else forgot all--oh, a spade that I had!
I'd soon have a look if the gold were there still,
And then set to work just to make out her will."
While speaking, he spied 'neath the bed a small leg
Without shoe or stocking, which proved to be Meg.
"Oh, she's heard every word, then!" the Abbot exclaimed;
"For the want of more caution I'm much to be blamed;
They will search every spot, and the wealth I shall lose it.
But the old dame can help it, and she may not choose it."
"Och then it is you, sir? I thought it was Ted,"
Cried Meg, as she crept from her nook near the bed;
"For he's in such a pet of a passion to-day,
That I'm forced for peace sake to keep out of his way."
Then too entered Looney, who, panting for breath,
Had made up his mind to be in at the death.
"Tom Smithers, yer rev'rence, I met close by here,
With pleasure he'd see yer whenever ye're near.
His old father's but bad still--you've heard, I suppose,
He was thrown from his horse and was pitched on his nose?"
"Yes, I have of it heard, and will see him ere long;
He'd been drinking too much, which was dreadfully wrong.
This cottage is small," he continued; "I fear
That comfort and ease you can ne'er enjoy here.
Besides, you're so far off that you don't get your share
Of the gifts I bestow on those under my care.
Now I have a neat cottage, and 'tis my intent,
Ted, to let it to you at a moderate rent.
And as to the Abbey, you'll then be so nigh,
Its garden will work for your spare hours supply."
"Hurrah! thanks! your rev'rence!" cried Ted with delight;
"I am grateful, contented, and happy now quite.
Sure I'll back with you now, sir, and see what it's like,
Then with pleasure the bargain I'll readily strike."
"Then with me at once, and your wife, if she'd see
The dwelling I speak of, can come too with me.
Though 'tis out of repair, yet to you 'twill appear
Like a palace, compared with this old hut out here.
Then Jenkins will lend you his cart to remove
Your goods; and, I think, a good neighbour will prove."
"Sure I'm ready," said Meg,
As she took from a peg
Her bonnet, which once might have been an old hat.
"And," cried Ted, "so am I,
Though I feel rather dry,
And maybe his rev'rence admires a good vat."
But a dark frown descending,
Made him tremble with awe;
He was sadly offending
The proud Abbot, he saw.
Then they went out together,
And, it being hot weather,
Their pace was exceedingly slow;
While the Abbot endeavours
From converse to gather
If they of the treasure aught know.
Now what after befell
It is needless to tell,
Save the cottage was liked and they went there to dwell.
While their hut and its ground
Was dug up all around,
Though there never a bone or a guinea was found.


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