And rosy was his cheek, and sly
The wand’rings of his keen grey eye;
Yet all the Farmers wives confest
The wond’rous pow’r this Monk possess’d;
Pow’r to rub out the score of sin,
Which Satan chalk’d upon his Tally;
To give fresh licence to begin,—
And for new scenes of frolic, rally.
For abstinence was not his way—
He lov’d to live—as well as pray;