Classic Poem

When the portly monk would ride,
Upon his patron-saint he cried
For help, if the good saint inclined,
This once to be so kind.
Then with a long and strong essay,
He rose in such a vigorous way,
As sent him over t' other side.
He rubbed his shin, set straight his hood,
And to his saint again he cried,
Worse and worse! you're over good,
I always like to stop half way!