Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical,
In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene,
And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.
She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through,
And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew;
The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine—
And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.
She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried;
She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died;
She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen;