Naturally every one searcht everywhere, But not a shred of Bishop could be found, The monks, when anyone questioned, would declare St. Peter’d snatcht to heaven their lord renowned, Though the wicked said (such rascals are not rare) That the Abbot’s course lay nearer underground; But the church straightaway put to his name the handle of Saint, thereby rebuking all such scandal.
But after this the monks grew most devout, And lived on milk and breakfast food entirely; Each morn from four to five one took a knout And flogged his mates ’til they grew good and friarly. Spirits from that time forth they did without, And lived the admiration of the shire. We Got the veracious record of those doings From an old manuscript found in the ruins.
A Lyric
If space and time, as sages say, Are things that cannot be, The fly that lives a single day Has lived as long as we. But let us live while yet we may, While love and life are free, For time is time, and runs away, Though sages disagree.
The flowers I sent thee when the dew Was trembling on the vine Were withered ere the wild bee flew To suck the eglantine. But let us haste to pluck anew Nor mourn to see them pine, And though the flowers of life be few Yet let them be divine.
Song
When We Came Home Across the Hill
When we came home across the hill No leaves were fallen from the trees; The gentle fingers of the breeze Had torn no quivering cobweb down.