Complete Poems and Plays (103 page)

In England, long before that royal Mormon

King Henry VIII found out that monks were quacks,

And took their lands and money from the poor men,

And brought their abbeys tumbling at their backs,

There was a village founded by some Norman

Who levied on all travelers his tax;

    Nearby this hamlet was a monastery

    Inhabited by a band of friars merry.

They were possessors of rich lands and wide,

An orchard, and a vineyard, and a dairy;

Whenever some old villainous baron died,

He added to their hoards — a deed which ne’er he

Had done before — their fortune multiplied,

As if they had been kept by a kind fairy.

    Alas! no fairy visited their host,

    Oh, no; much worse than that, they had a ghost.

Some wicked and heretical old sinner

Perhaps, who had been walled up for his crimes;

At any rate, he sometimes came to dinner,

Whene’er the monks were having merry times.

He stole the fatter cows and left the thinner

To furnish all the milk — upset the chimes,

    And once he sat the prior on the steeple,

    To the astonishment of all the people.

When Christmas time was near the Abbot vowed

They’d eat their meal from ghosts and phantoms free,

The fiend must stay at home — no ghosts allowed

At this exclusive feast. From over sea

He purchased at his own expense a crowd

Of relics from a Spanish saint — said he:

    ‘If ghosts come uninvited, then, of course,

    I’ll be compelled to keep them off by force.’

He drencht the gown he wore with holy water,

The turkeys, capons, boars, they were to eat,

He even soakt the uncomplaining porter

Who stood outside the door from head to feet.

To make a rather lengthy story shorter,

He left no wise precaution incomplete;

    He doused the room in which they were to dine,

    And watered everything except the wine.

So when all preparations had been made,

The jovial epicures sat down to table.

The menus of that time I am afraid

I don’t know much about — as well’s I’m able

I’ll go through the account: They made a raid

On every bird and beast in Æsop’s fable

    To fill out their repast, and pies and puddings,

    And jellies, pasties, cakes among the good things.

A mighty peacock standing on both legs

With difficulty kept from toppling over,

Next came a viand made of turtle eggs,

And after that a great pie made of plover,

And flagons which perhaps held several kegs

Of ale, and cheese which they kept under cover.

    Last, a boar’s head, which to bring in took four pages,

    His mouth an apple held, his skull held sausages.

Over their Christmas wassail the monks dozed,

A fine old drink, though now gone out of use —

His feet upon the table superposed

Each wisht he had not eaten so much goose.

The Abbot with proposing every toast

Had drank more than he ought t’ have of grape juice.

    The lights began to burn distinctly blue,

    As in ghost stories lights most always do.

The doors, though barred and bolted most securely,

Gave way — my statement nobody can doubt,

Who knows the well known fact, as you do surely —

That ghosts are fellows whom you
can’t
keep out;

It is a thing to be lamented sorely

Such slippery folk should be allowed about.

    For often they drop in at awkward moments,

    As everybody’ll know who reads this romance.

The Abbot sat as pasted to his chair,

His eye became the size of any dollar,

The ghost then took him roughly by the hair

And bade him come with him, in accents hollow.

The friars could do nought but gape and stare,

The spirit pulled him rudely by the collar,

    And before any one could say ‘O jiminy!’

    The pair had vanisht swiftly up the chimney.

Naturally every one searcht everywhere,

But not a shred of Bishop could be found,

The monks, when anyone questioned, would declare

St. Peter’d snatcht to heaven their lord renowned,

Though the wicked said (such rascals are not rare)

That the Abbot’s course lay nearer underground;

    But the church straightway put to his name the handle

    Of Saint, thereby rebuking all such scandal.

But after this the monks grew most devout,

And lived on milk and breakfast food entirely;

Each morn from four to five one took a knout

And flogged his mates ’till they grew good and friarly.

Spirits from that time forth they did without,

And lived the admiration of the shire. We

    Got the veracious record of these doings

    From an old manuscript found in the ruins.

If Time and Space, as Sages say‚

Are things which cannot be,

The sun which does not feel decay

No greater is than we.

So why, Love, should we ever pray

To live a century?

The butterfly that lives a day

Has lived eternity.

The flowers I gave thee when the dew

Was trembling on the vine,

Were withered ere the wild bee flew

To suck the eglantine.

So let us haste to pluck anew

Nor mourn to see them pine,

And though our days of love be few

Yet let them be divine.