MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For water and a crust they crave, Those mouths that, even on Lent days, Scarce knew the taste of water, save When watering for dainties. The room was high, the host's was nigh: That monks would make a raree-show Or that two confessors would come, That peeping knelt, and wriggling, And when ye should have gone to pray, Betook yourselves to giggling! But every deed will have its meed : The farmer on a hone prepares His knife, a long and keen one; And talks of killing both the frères, The fat one and the lean one. To-morrow, by the break of day, He orders, too, saltpetre And pickling tubs――But, reader, stay, Our host was no man-eater. The priests knew not that country-folks As if they'd trod on briars. Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread, The hair of either craven Had stood erect upon his head, But that their heads were shaven. What! pickle and smoke us limb by limb? God curse him and his larders! St Peter will bedevil him If he saltpetre friars. Yet, Dominick, to die!-the bare Yes, Boniface, 't is time we were Would that, for absolution's sake, O Dominick! thy nether end And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend, But having ne'er a switch, poor souls! Yet, 'midst this penitential plight, A thought their fancies tickled; And so they girt themselves to leap, Their host and hostess snoring. The lean one 'lighted like a cat, Then scamper'd off like Jehu, That broaden'd with the plumping. There long beneath the window's sconce Upon a Chinese drawing. At length he waddled to a sty; The pigs, you'd thought for game-sake, Came round and nosed him lovingly, As if they'd known their namesake. Meanwhile the other flew to town, Just as the horsemen halted near, Who beckon'd to them not to kick up Here ended all the matter; The gens-d'armes at the story broke Lean Dominick, methinks, his chaps THE END. |