Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin, Five feet one in his sandal-shoon, While the saint thought him sleeping, Was listening and peeping, And watching his master the whole afternoon.
This Peter the Saint had pick'd out from his fellows, To look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows, To put on the Wall's-Ends and Lambtons whenever he Chose to indulge in a little orfevrerie; —Of course you have read, That St. Dunstan was bred A Goldsmith, and never quite gave up the trade! The Company—richest in London, 'tis said— Acknowledge him still as their Patron and Head; Nor is it so long Since a capital song In his praise—now recorded their archives among— Delighted the noble and dignified throng Of their guests, who, the newspapers told the whole town, With cheers "pledged the wine-cup to Dunstan's renown," When Lord Lyndhurst, the duke, and Sir Robert, were dining At the Hall some time since with the Prime Warden Twining.— —I am sadly digressing—a fault which sometimes One can hardly avoid in these gossiping rhymes— A slight deviation's forgiven! but then this is Too long, I fear, for a decent parenthesis, So I'll rein up my Pegasus sharp, and retreat, or You'll think I've forgotten the Lay-brother Peter, Whom the Saint, as I said, Kept to turn down his bed, Dress his palfreys and cobs, And do other odd jobs,— As reducing to writing Whatever he might, in The course of the day or the night, be inditing, And cleaning the plate of his mitre with whiting; Performing, in short, all those duties and offices Abbots exact from Lay-brothers and Novices.
It occurs to me here You'll perhaps think it queer That St. Dunstan should have such a personage near, When he'd only to say Those words,—be what they may,— And his Broomstick at once his commands would obey.— That's true—but the fact is 'Twas rarely his practice Such aid to resort to, or such means apply, Unless he'd some "dignified knot" to untie, Adopting, though sometimes, as now, he'd reverse it, Old Horace's maxim "nec Broomstick intersit."— —Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin, Heard all the Saint was saying within; Peter, the Lay-brother, sallow and spare, Peep'd through the key-hole, and—what saw he there?— Why,—A Broomstick bringing a rush-bottom'd chair.
What Shakspeare observes, in his play of King John, Is undoubtedly right, That "ofttimes the sight Of means to do ill deeds will make ill deeds done." Here's Peter, the Lay-brother, pale-faced and meagre, A good sort of man, only rather too eager To listen to what other people are saying, When he ought to be minding his business or praying, Gets into a scrape,—and an awkward one too,— As you'll find, if you've patience enough to go through The whole of the story I'm laying before ye,— Entirely from having "the means" in his view Of doing a thing which he ought not to do!
Still rings in his ear, Distinct and clear, Abracadabra! that word of fear! And the two which I never yet happen'd to hear. Still doth he spy, With Fancy's eye, The Broomstick at work, and the Saint standing by; And he chuckles, and says to himself with glee, "Aha! that Broomstick shall work for me!"
Hark!—that swell O'er flood and o'er fell, Mountain, and dingle, and moss-cover'd dell! List!—'tis the sound of the Compline bell, And St. Dunstan is quitting his ivied cell; Peter, I wot, Is off like a shot, Or a little dog scalded by something that's hot, For he hears his Master approaching the spot Where he'd listened so long, though he knew he ought not: Peter remember'd his Master's frown— He trembled—he'd not have been caught for a crown; Howe'er you may laugh, He had rather, by half, Have run up to the top of the tower and jump'd down.
The Compline hour is past and gone, Evening service is over and done; The monks repair To their frugal fare, A snug little supper of something light and digestible, ere they retire for the night. For, in Saxon times, in respect to their cheer, St. Austin's Rule was by no means severe, But allowed, from the Beverley Roll 'twould appear, Bread and cheese, and spring onions, and sound table-beer, And even green peas, when they were not too dear; Not like the rule of La Trappe, whose chief merit is Said to consist in its greater austerities; And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws, Ne'er are suffer'd to speak, Think only in Greek, And subsist, as the Bears do, by sucking their paws. Astonish'd I am The gay Baron Geramb, With his head sav'ring more of the Lion than Lamb, Could e'er be persuaded to join such a set—I Extend the remark to Signor Ambrogetti.— For a monk of La Trappe is as thin as a rat, While an Austin Friar was jolly and fat; Though, of course, the fare to which I allude, With as good table-beer as ever was brew'd, Was all "caviare to the multitude," Extending alone to the clergy, together in Hall assembled,—and not to Lay-brethren. St. Dunstan himself sits there at his post, On what they say is Called a Dais, O'erlooking the whole of his clerical host, And eating poach'd eggs with spinach and toast; Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair, But where is the sixth?—Where's Peter!—Ay, where?
'Tis an evening in June, And a little half moon, A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on, Gleaming and beaming, And dancing the stream in, Has made her appearance above the horizon; Just such a half moon as you see, in a play, On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey, Or the fair Turk who weds with the "Noble Lord Bateman;" —Vide plate in George Cruickshank's memoirs of that great man.
She shines on a turret remote and lone, A turret with ivy and moss overgrown, And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone; Such a tower as a poet of no mean calibre I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber, Assigns to oblivion[10]—a den for a She bear; Within it are found, Strew'd above and around, On the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground, All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools, To name which, and their uses, would puzzle the Schools, And make very wise people look very like fools; Pincers and hooks, And black-letter books, All sorts of pokers, and all sorts of tongs, And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs To Goldsmith's work, chemistry, alchymy,—all, In short that a Sage, In that erudite age, Could require, was at hand, or at least within call. In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick!—and there A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottom'd chair!