Morning dawn'd—'twas broad day, Still no Prior! the tray With his muffins and eggs went untasted away;— He came not to luncheon—all said, "it was rum of him!" —None could conceive what on earth had become of him.
They examined his cell, They peep'd down the well; They went up the tow'r, and looked into the bell, They dragg'd the great fish-pond, the little one tried, But found nothing at all, save some carp—which they fried.
"Dear me! Dear me! Why, where can he be? He's fall'n over the cliff?—tumbled into the sea?" "Stay—he talk'd," exclaimed one, "if I recollect right, Of making a call on his brother, the Knight!"
He turns as he speaks, The "Court Lodge," he seeks, Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes But scarce half a mile on his way had he sped, When he spied the good Prior in the paddock—stone dead!
Alas! 'twas too true! And I need not tell you In the convent his news made a pretty to do; Through all its wide precincts so roomy and spacious, Nothing was heard but "Bless me!" and "Good Gracious!!"
They sent for the May'r And the Doctor, a pair Of grave men, who began to discuss the affair, When in bounced the Coroner, foaming with fury, "Because," as he said, "'twas pooh! pooh! ing his jury."
Then commenced a dispute, And so hot they went to't, That things seem'd to threaten a serious émeute, When, just in the midst of the uproar and racket, Who should walk in but St. Thomas à Becket.
Quoth his saintship, "How now? Here's a fine coil, I trow! I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row? Mr. Wickliffe—or Wackliffe—whatever your name is— And you, Mr. May'r, don't you know, Sirs, what shame is?
"Pray what's all this clatter About?—what's the matter?" Here a monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter, Sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor, "'Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick—he's no more!"
"How!—what?" says the saint, "Yes he is—no he ain't[73] He can't be deceased—pooh! it's merely a faint, Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter, 'He should have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'