"A word or look that men may brook, may give a lady pain,
Wherefore from all that's coarse and rude, real gentlemen refrain;
Their manners gentle as their name, when they a lady greet,
A pleasant thing enough it is such gentlemen to meet.
"And such a man was Father Joe. He never pass'd me by
In disrespectful haste, although there might be no one nigh;
Nor duck'd his head, or look'd askance, like some rude people now,
Who seem to chuckle as they pass, to cheat one of a bow."
"But may it please your ladyship!" exclaimed the dusky wight,
"A man may be a precious rogue, though perfectly polite."
"I don't know that," the lady said, "but grant that now and then
Some fellows may appear polite who really are rude men,
"'Tis not the simple smirk or bow that makes the gentleman,
But constant care to please the fair in every way he can;
And this good father never miss'd whene'er my shrine he pass'd,
To kneel or bow, extremely low, up to the very last.
"Therefore I don't, because I won't, believe a word you say
Against him in his present plight, which, happen how it may,
Was doubtless accidental quite—at all events my will
Must be obey'd, and I command, you'll let him lie there still."
The dark one scowl'd and mutter'd low, about "a losing game,"
And being "done clean out of one," "done brown," and "burning shame,"
Then hung his head, and slank away, and all his dirty crew
Dispersed themselves about the land fresh mischief to pursue.
The lady then, in accents kind, accosted Jolly Joe,
"They're gone! You're safe! Come! Rouse yourself! You are not dead, I know;
But in a swoon that very soon away like dreams will pass,
Much sooner than the cold you'll catch by sleeping on the grass.
"Go quickly home and get to bed—don't stop to thank me now,
But come to-morrow to my shrine and make a solemn vow,
That when for friends or fellowship henceforth abroad you roam,
You'll never take a drop more wine than you can carry home."
She spake and vanish'd, and again the night was dark and drear;
Joe gave a grunt and shook himself, then shook again with fear,
For though his body lay inert, to all appearance dead,
It seems his mind was quite awake to what pass'd overhead.
Such near escape from such a scrape was certainly enough
To shake the stoutest nerves, and his were not by nature tough;
He got upon his legs, and then went down upon his knees,
Gave thanks, and said, "Dear Lady, pray do with me what you please."