Pray don't suppose That I'm going to prose O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes, With the dagger and bowl, and all that sort of thing, Not much to the credit of Miss, Queen, or King.
The tale may be true, But between me and you, With the King's escapade I'll have nothing to do; But shall merely select, as a theme for my rhymes, A fact, which occurr'd to some folks in his times.
If for health, or a "lark," You should ever embark In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark, The steam-vessel call'd the "Red Rover," the barge Of an excellent officer, named Captain Large,
You may see, some half way 'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay And Margate, the place where you're going to stay, A village called Birchington, fam'd for its "Rolls," As the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for Soles.
Well,—there stood a fane In this Harry Broom's reign, On the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main, Renown'd for its sanctity all through the nation, And orthodox friars of the Austin persuasion.
Among them there was one, Whom if once I begun To describe as I ought I should never have done, Father Richard of Birchington, so was the Friar Yclept, whom the rest had elected their Prior.
He was tall and upright, About six feet in height, His complexion was what you'd denominate light, And the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown, A little bald patch on the top of his crown.
His bright sparkling eye Was of hazel, and nigh Rose a finely arch'd eyebrow of similar dye, He'd a small, well-formed mouth with the Cupidon lip And an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip.
In doors and out He was very devout, With his Aves and Paters—and oh, such a knout!! For his self-flagellations! the Monks used to say He would wear out two penn'orth of whip-cord a day!
Then how his piety Shows in his diet, he Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety, Sand-eels or dabs; or his appetite mocks With those small periwinkles that crawl on the rocks.