Ask’d a measure to tread by the beauties of Ferques.
When moonlight had risen to silver the scene,
The party adjourn’d from the hall to the green,
And their laughter was shaking the stars in the sky,
When by chance, on the heels of their mirth, there pass’d by
A Franciscan from Boulogne, Franciscanly shod,[7]
Who ask’d them to kneel at the sight of their God,
Whose presence mysterious he fully reveal’d.
But the fiddler, he swore, he’d be hang’d if he kneel’d,
And affirm’d—most irreverent charge ’gainst a monk—