And how, when at length, in the odour of sanctity, All of them died without grief or complaint; The Monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous Not to suppose every one was a Saint.
And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby As not to say yearly four masses a head, On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!
How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories, How the ci-devant Abbot's obtain'd greater still, When some cripples, on touching his fractured os femoris, Threw down their crutches, and danced a quadrille!
And how Abbot Simon, (who turn'd out a prime one,) These words, which grew into a proverb full soon, O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto, "Who suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!!"
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Parish.
[15] The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen when such things were. Alack! alack! the Railroads have ruined his "vested interest."