My native country’s colour coming gently through my coat;
I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green;
She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.
She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too,
Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view.
I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seen
A tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.
I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring.
We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing;
Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean,