One half was Father Gury, and the rest was Father Pat.
I’d quoted him so often to the young lads round about
To show that we old fellows still were far from petered out,
Could take a hand at ceremonies, could sing a Mass and that;
So when we had a big day here I called on Father Pat.
He came—but didn’t conquer, faith, though every nerve was strained;
He’d waved his hand to rubrics on the day he was ordained;
He went along his old, old way in broken notes and flat—
To tell the truth, I felt ashamed for once of Father Pat.
These young lads build their castles up, and fancy’s beacons glow.