Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’
There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view.
And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’
With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew;
See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’,
And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hare
While His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’
For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.
Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him—
And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”;