A priest he was, not over-merry,
Who loved sound doctrine and good sherry;
Who wound his mind up every morning
At the sedate cathedral’s warning,
And found it soberly keep time,
In a pocket, to each hourly chime;
“Who, church’s clock-face dwelling under,
Knew ’twas impossible to blunder,
If Peter’s self at’s door should knock,
And roundly ask him—What’s o’clock?