But my teeth never ache but I think, as I wake,
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And my corns never shoot, but the woes I compute
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And so I decide my pangs to abide
Like her who suffer’d—and braved—and died
In the capital of Peru,
The region they call Peru.
Lays of the Saintly. By Walter Parke
(Vizetelly and Co.), London, 1882.