From his lurking place, With stealthy pace, Through the "long-drawn" aisle he begins to crawl, As you see a cat walk on the top of a wall, When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall. —He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel, (An invention on which we've improved a great deal Of late years—the substitute best to rely on 's what Jones of the Strand calls his Pyrogeneion,) He strikes with despatch!—his Tinder catches!— Now where is his candle?—and where are his matches?— 'Tis done!—they are found!— He stands up, and looks round By the light of a "dip" of sixteen to the pound! —What is it that now makes his nerves to quiver?— His hand to shake—and his limbs to shiver?— Fear?—Pooh!—it is only a touch of the liver,— All is silent—all is still— It's "gammon"—it's "stuff!"—he may do what he will! Carefully now he approaches the shrine, In which, as I've mentioned before, about nine, They had placed in such state the lamented Divine! But not to worship—No!—No such thing!— His aim is—to "prig" the pastoral ring!!
Fancy his fright, When, with all his might Having forced up the lid, which they'd not fastened quite, Of the marble sarcophagus—"All in white" The dead Bishop started up, bolt upright On his hinder end,—and grasped him so tight, That the clutch of a kite, Or a bull-dog's bite When he's most provoked and in bitterest spite, May well be conceived in comparison slight, And having thus "tackled" him—blew out his light!!
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The fright and the fear!— No one to hear!—nobody near! In the dead of the night!—at a bad time of year!— A defunct Bishop squatting upright on his bier, And shouting so loud, that the drum of his ear He thought would have split as these awful words met it— "Ah, ha! My good friend!—Don't you wish you may get it?"— Oh, dear! Oh, dear! 'Twas a night of fear! —I should just like to know, if the boldest man here, In his situation, would not have felt queer?
The wretched man bawls, And he yells, and he squalls, But there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls, And the desk, and the pulpit, the pews, and the stalls. Held firmly at bay, Kick and plunge as he may, His struggles are fruitless—he can't get away, He really can't tell what to do or to say, And being a Pagan, don't know how to pray; Till, through the east window, a few streaks of grey Announce the approach of the dawn of the day!
Oh, a welcome sight Is the rosy light, Which lovelily heralds a morning bright, Above all to a wretch kept in durance all night By a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight,— Of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap, The most disagreeable kind of a man-trap! —Oh! welcome that bell's Matin chime, which tells To one caught in this worst of all possible snares, That the hour is arrived to begin Morning Prayers, And the monks and the friars are coming down stairs!
Conceive the surprise Of the Choir—how their eyes Are distended to twice their original size,— How some begin bless,—some anathematize,— And all look on the thief as Old Nick in disguise. While the mystified Abbot cries, "Well!—I declare!— —This is really a very mysterious affair!— Bid the bandy-legg'd Sexton go run for the May'r!"
The May'r and his suite Are soon on their feet,— (His worship kept house in the very same street,—) At once he awakes, "His compliments" makes, "He'll be up at the Church in a couple of shakes!" Meanwhile the whole Convent is pulling and hauling, And bawling and squalling, And terribly mauling The thief whose endeavour to follow his calling Had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling.— Now high, now low, They drag "to and fro,"— Now this way, now that way they twist him—but—No!— The glazed eye of St. Aloys distinctly says "Poh! You may pull as you please, I shall not let him go!" Nay, more;—when his Worship at length came to say He was perfectly ready to take him away, And fat him to grace the next Auto-da-fé, Still closer he prest The poor wretch to his breast, While a voice—though his jaws still together were jamm'd— Was heard from his chest, "If you do, I'll——" here slamm'd The great door of the Church,—with so awful a sound That the close of the good Bishop's sentence was drown'd! Out spake Frère Jehan, A pitiful man, Oh! a pitiful man was he! And he wept, and he pined For the sins of mankind, As a Friar in his degree. "Remember, good gentlefolks," so he began, "Dear Aloys was always a pitiful man!— That voice from his chest Has clearly exprest He has pardoned the culprit—and as for the rest, Before you shall burn him—he'll see you all blest!"
The Monks, and the Abbot, the Sexton, and Clerk Were exceedingly struck with the Friar's remark, And the Judge, who himself was by no means a shark Of a Lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark, But still leaned (having once been himself a gay spark,) To the merciful side,—like the late Alan Park,— Agreed that, indeed, The best way to succeed, And by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed, Would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon, On a certain condition, and that not a hard one, Viz.—"That he, the said Infidel, straightway should ope His mind to conviction, and worship the Pope, And 'ev'ry man Jack' in an amice or cope;— And that, to do so, He should forthwith go To Rome, and salute there his Holiness' toe;— And never again Read Voltaire, or Tom Paine, Or Percy Bysshe Shelley, or Lord Byron's Cain;— His pilgrimage o'er, take St. Francis's habit;— If anything lay about, never to 'nab' it;— Or, at worst, if he should light on articles gone astray, To be sure and deposit them safe in the Monast'ry!"
The oath he took— — As he kiss'd the book, Nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook! The Bishop sank down with a satisfied look, And the Thief, releas'd By the Saint deceas'd, Fell into the arms of a neighbouring Priest!
It skills not now To tell you how The transmogrified Pagan perform'd his vow; How he quitted his home, Travell'd to Rome, And went to St. Peter's and look'd at the Dome, And obtain'd from the Pope an assurance of bliss, And kiss'd—whatever he gave him to kiss— Toe, relic, embroidery, naught came amiss; And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban Hung up in the Sistine Chapel, by way Of a relic—and how it hangs there to this day.—