“There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
       With beans and lettuces fair to see: 
     His lenten fare now let me share,
       I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!”

     —­“Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
       To our patron Saint foul shame it were
     Should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed,
       Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.

     “There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
       And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
     Small scandal I ween shall then be seen: 
       They are a goodly companie!”

     The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring,
       His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine;
     And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring
       To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.

     The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety;
       Liver, and gizzard, and all are there;
     Ne’er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
       Over more luscious or delicate fare.

     But no pious stave he, no Pater or Ave
       Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden’s face;
     She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy,
       She asked him for gizzard;—­but not for grace!

     Yet gayly the Lord Abbot smiled, and pressed,
       And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled;
     And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast,
       And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled.

     There was no lack of the old Sherris sack,
       Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
     And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack,
       He grew less pious and more polite.

     She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
       And she drank as Lady ought not to drink;
     And he pressed her hand ’neath the table thrice,
       And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink.

     And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
       Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
     But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
       So they put him to bed, and they tucked him in!

     The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed;
       And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise. 
     As he peeped through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real
       The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

     In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing—­
       He could not distinguish the words very plain,
     But ’twas all about “Cole,” and “jolly old Soul,”
       And “Fiddlers,” and “Punch,” and things quite as profane.

     Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such reveling,
       With fervor himself began to bless;
     For he thought he must somehow have let the Devil in—­
       And perhaps was not very much out in his guess.

     The Accusing Byers[1] “flew up to Heaven’s Chancery,”
       Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
     The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
       Wept (see the works of the late Mr. Sterne).