The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray, be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limp'd on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, 'Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the ring, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Serv'd in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution. When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumber'd in pray'r time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "caw," As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manner they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw! He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint, The conclave determined to make him a Saint; And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canoniz'd him by the name of Jem Crow!
OUR SONG OF THE MONTH.
No. VI. June, 1837.
I. Mother of summer roses! Winter's ling'ring closes Made us fear for thee:— Many a hope was wailing, Thinking thou wert sailing, With thy smile, To some false isle, Upon our tribute sea!
II. Mother of summer roses! Nought on earth opposes Our fond claim to thee! Find'st thou welcome dearer? Beauty or minstrels nearer? In the arch Of thy round march Can gentler rest-place be?
III. Mother of summer roses, June! thy month discloses All that is sweet and fair: Birds and flower wreathing Minstrel garlands, breathing Song and bloom In one perfume, Reviving the faint air!
IV. Mother of summer roses! On thy breast reposes The flush'd cheek of the year: Break not his soft slumbers With rude music-numbers: Mingled gush Of stream and thrush Be all that may come near! W.