[A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.]
"This holy childe Dunstan was borne in ye yere of our Lorde ix. hondred & xxv. that tyme regnynge in this londe Kinge Athelston.
"Whan it so was that Saynt Dunstan was wery of prayer than used he to werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for to eschewe ydelnes."
Golden Legend.
St. Dunstan stood in his ivied tower, Alembic, crucible, all were there; When in came Nick to play him a trick, In guise of a damsel passing fair. Every one knows How the story goes: He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose. A story at least as trite as it's true; Nor do I intend An instant to spend On the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend, When, bolting away to a chamber remote, Inconceivably bored by his Witen-gemote, Edwy left them all joking, And drinking, and smoking, So tipsily grand, they'd stand nonsense from no King, But sent the Archbishop Their Sovereign to fish up, With a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel taps, Unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps. You must not be plagued with the same story twice, And perhaps have seen this one, by W. Dyce At the Royal Academy, very well done, And mark'd in the catalogue Four, seven, one.
You might there view the Saint, who in sable array'd is, Coercing the Monarch away from the Ladies; His right hand has hold of his Majesty's jerkin, His left shows the door, and he seems to say, "Sir King, Your most faithful Commons won't hear of your shirking! Quit your tea, and return to your Barclai and Perkyn, Or, by Jingo,[9] ere morning, no longer alive, a Sad victim you'll lie to your love for Elgiva!"
No farther to treat Of this ungallant feat, What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint One particular fact in the life of the Saint, Which somehow, for want of due care, I presume, Has escaped the researches of Rapin and Hume, In recounting a miracle, both of them men, who a Great deal fall short of Jaques Bishop of Genoa, An Historian who likes deeds like these to record— See his Aurea Legenda, by Wynkyn de Worde
St. Dunstan stood again in his tower, Alembic, crucible, all complete; He had been standing a good half hour, And now he utter'd the words of power, And call'd to his Broomstick to bring him a seat.
The words of power!—and what be they To which e'en Broomsticks bow and obey?— Why,—'twere uncommonly hard to say, As the prelate I named has recorded none of them, What they may be, But I know they are three, And Abracadabra, I take it, is one of them: For I'm told that most Cabalists use that identical Word, written thus in what they call "a Pentacle."
However that be, You'll doubtless agree It signifies little to you or to me, As not being dabblers in Grammarye; Still, it must be confess'd, for a Saint to repeat Such language aloud is scarcely discreet; For, as Solomon hints to folks given to chatter, "A bird of the air may carry the matter;" And in sooth, From my youth I remember a truth Insisted on much in my earlier years, To wit, "Little Pitchers have very long ears!" Now, just such a "Pitcher" as those I allude to Was outside the door, which his "ears" appeared glued to.