Mary, I warrant, soaring brave!
And in a trice, beneath the folds
Of filthy garb which gowns each knave,
Down drops it—there to hide grimace,
Contortion of the mouth and nose
At finding Mary in the place
They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!
"At last, they will not brook—not they!—
Longer such outrage on their tribe:
So, in some hole and corner, lay