The stout umbrella in the hand of manly Father Pat.
I see the ordered sitting-room he’ll never enter more,
The ivory bead-crowned crucifix, the font behind the door,
The parish books, the registers and, handy where he sat,
The well-thumbed breviary that warmed the heart of Father Pat.
A man of method all the time—the pigeon-holes a-line,
A dozen keys upon a chain, his pockets filled with twine.
His actions told the time of day, and rivalled e’en in that
The sober clock that ticked away the life of Father Pat.
He used to run the curate on the lines he ran himself;