In Good Friday’s sad procession
I beheld him in his place;
’Mongst the men of his profession
He had far the gloomiest face.
On Monácho Monachorum
Now-a-days the cap doth fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]
At his name thy dull eye flashes;
Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!
There the cowls are, here the lash is,—
Strike away as formerly!
Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,
As at sight of every cowl
Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly,
And they fearfully did howl.
Old Erasmus could not master
His loud laughter at the joke;
And this fortunate disaster
His tormenting ulcer broke.
Old and young laugh,—all the city
In the general shout concur,
And they sing the well-known ditty:
“Gaudeamur igitur!”
When those dirty monks we’re catching,
We are overwhelm’d with fleas;
Hutten thus was always scratching,
And was never at his ease.
“Alea jacta est!” however
Was the brave knight’s battle shout,
Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,
Both the priests and rabble rout.
Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!
Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?
Wake to action on the Isar,
And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.