The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 44

THE DEVIL AND THE MONK

Once Satan and a monk went on a "drunk,"

And Satan struck a bargain with the monk, Whereby the Devil's crew was much increased By penceless poor and now and then a priest Who, lacking cunning or good common sense, Got caught _in flagrante_ and out of pence.

Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup And drank a br.i.m.m.i.n.g b.u.mper to the pope: Then--"Here's to you," he said, "sober or drunk, In cowl or corsets, every monk's a punk.

Whate'er they preach unto the common breed, At heart the priests and I are well agreed.

Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old, But in her scales can hear the clink of gold.

The convent is a harem in disguise, And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise To hide the naked truth of l.u.s.t and lecheries.

"And still the toilers feed the pious breed, And pin their faith upon the bishop's sleeve; Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed And dine on faith. 'Tis easier to believe An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth.

Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast Until without or pounds or pence or price-- Free as the fabled wine of paradise-- They furnish priestly plates with b.u.t.tered toast.

Your priests of superst.i.tion stalk the land With Jacob's winning voice and Esau's hand; Sinners to h.e.l.l and saints to heaven they call, And eat the fattest fodder in the stall.

They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep, Talk Greek to th' _grex_ and Latin to their sheep, And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college For every drop of sense or useful knowledge."

"I beg your pardon," softly said the monk, "I fear your Majesty is raving drunk.

I would be courteous."

But the Devil laughed And slyly winked and sagely shook his head.

"My fawning dog," the sage satanic said, "Wags not his tail for me but for my bread.

Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye, And craft grown craftier in this modern day Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way; And priestcraft lingers and survives its use; What was a blessing once is now abuse: Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf, The old-time shepherd has become a wolf And only feeds his flocks to feast himself.

To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps, For still he thinks, as in the days of old, The key to holy heaven is made of gold, That in the game of mortals money is trumps, That golden darts will pierce e'en Virtue's s.h.i.+eld, And by the salve of gold all sins are healed.

So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence, And sinners' souls must groan in Purgatory Until they pay the admission-fee to glory.

"There was an honest poet once on earth Who beat all other bardies at a canter; Rob' Burns his mother called him at his birth.

Though handicapped by rum and much a ranter, He won the madcap race in _Tam O'Shanter_.

He drove a spanking span from Scottish heather, Strong-limbed, but light of foot as flea or feather-- Rhyme and Reason, matched and yoked together, And reined them with light hand and limber leather.

He wrote to me once on a time--I mind it-- A bold epistle and the poet signed it.

He thought to cheat "Auld Nickie" of his dues, But who outruns the Devil casts his shoes; And so at last from frolicking and drinkin', 'Some luckless hour' sent him to h.e.l.l 'alinkin'![CW]

Times had been rather dull in my dominion, And all my imps like lubbers lay a snoring, But Burns began to rhyme us his opinion, And in ten minutes had all h.e.l.l aroaring.

Then Robbie pulled his book of poems out And read us sundry satires from the book; '_Death and Doctor Hornbook_' raised a shout Till all the roof-tin on the rafters shook; And when his '_Unco Guid_' the bardie read The crew all clapped their hands and yelled like mad; But '_Holy Willie's Prayer_' 'brought down the house'.

So I was glad to give the bard a pa.s.s And a few pence for toll at Peter's gate; For if the roof of h.e.l.l were made of bra.s.s Bob Burns would shake it off as sure as fate.

I mind it well--that poem on a louse!

'O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us,' Monk, 'To see oursels as others see us'--drunk; 'It wad frae monie a blunder free us'--list!-- 'And foolish notion.' Abbot, bishop, priest, 'What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e' you all, 'And ev'n devotion.' Cowls and robes would fall, And sometimes leave a bishop but a beast, And show a leper sore where erst they made a priest."

[CW] Tripping. See Burns' "_Address to the Deil_"

Not to be beat the jolly monk filled up His silver mug with rare old Burgundy; "Here's to your health," he said, "your Majesty"-- And drained the br.i.m.m.i.n.g goblet at a gulp-- "'For when the Devil was sick the Devil a monk would be; But when the Devil got well a devil a monk was he.'

_In vino veritas_ is true, no doubt-- When wine goes in teetotal truth comes out.

To shake a little Shakespeare in the wine: 'Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall'; But in the realm of Fate, as I opine, A devil a virtue is or sin at all.

'The Devil be d.a.m.ned' is what we preach, you know it-- At ma.s.s and vespers, holy-bread and dinner: From priest to pope, from pedagogue to poet, We sanctify the sin and d.a.m.n the sinner.

This poet Shakespeare, whom I read with pleasure, Wrote once--I think, in taking his own 'Measure':-- 'They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.' The reason halts: If read between the lines--not by the letter-- 'Tis plain enough that Shakespeare was atrimmin'

His own unruly s.h.i.+p and furling sail To meet a British tempest or a gale, And keep cold water from his wine and women.

Now I'll admit, when he's a little mellow, The Devil himself's a devilish clever fellow, And, though his cheeks and paunch are somewhat shrunk, He only lacks a cowl to make a monk.

Time is the mother of twins _et hic et nunc;_ Come, hood your horns and fill the mug abrimmin', For we are cheek by jowl on wit and wine and women."

And so the monk and Devil filled the mug, And quaffed and chaffed and laughed the night away; And when the "wee sma" hours of night had come, The monk slipped out and stole the abbot's rum; And when the abbot came at break of day, There cheek by jowl--horns, hoofs, and hood--they lay, With open missal and an empty jug, And broken beads and badly battered mug-- In fond embrace--dead drunk upon the rug.

Think not, wise reader, that the bard hath drunk The wine that fumed these vagaries from the monk; Nor, in the devil ethics thou hast read, There spake the poet in the Devil's stead.

Let Virtue be our helmet and our s.h.i.+eld, And Truth our weapon--weapon sharp and strong And deadly to all error and all wrong.

Yea, armed with Truth, though rogues and rascals throng The citadel of Virtue shall not yield, For G.o.d's right arm of Truth prevails in every field.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DEVIL AND THE MONK]

THE TARIFF ON TIN

Monarch of Hannah's rocking-chair, With unclipped beard and unkempt hair, Sitting at ease by the kitchen fire, Nor heeding the wind and the driving sleet, Jo Lumpkin perused the _Daily Liar_-- A leading and stanch Democratic sheet, While Hannah, his wife, in her calico, Sat knitting a pair of mittens for Jo.

"Hanner," he said, and he raised his eyes And looked exceedingly grave and wise, "The kentry's agoin, I guess, tu the dogs: Them durned Republikins, they air hogs: A dev'lish purty fix we air in; They've gone un riz the teriff on tin."

"How's thet?" said Hannah, and turned her eyes With a look of wonder and vague surprise.

"Why them confoundered Congriss chaps Hez knocked the prices out uv our c.r.a.ps: We can't sell b.u.t.ter ner beans no more Tu enny furren s.h.i.+p er sh.o.r.e, Becuz them durned Republikins Hez gone un riz the teriff on tins."

Hannah dropped her knitting-work on her knees, And looked very solemn and ill-at-ease: She gazed profoundly into the fire, Then hitched her chair a little bit nigher, And said as she glanced at the _Daily Liar_ With a sad, wan look in her b.u.t.termilk eyes: "I vum thet's a tax on punkin-pies, Fer they know we allers bakes 'em in Pans un platters un plates uv tin."

"I wouldn't agrumbled a bit," said Jo, "Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich; But I swow it's a morul political sin Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch With thet pesky teriff on tin.

Ef they'd a put a teriff on irn un coal Un hides un taller un hemlock bark, Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole By buildin uv mills un givin uv work, Un gladd'nin many a farmer's soul By raisin the price of pertaters un pork: But durn their eyes, it's a morul sin-- They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.

I wouldn't wonder a bit ef Blaine Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine; Er else he hez foundered a combinas.h.i.+n Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creas.h.i.+n.

I'll bet Jay Gould is intu the'trust,'

Un they've gone in tergether tu make er bust; Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in They've gone un riz the teriff on tin.

What'll we du fer pans un pails When the cow comes in un the old uns fails?

Tu borrer a word frum Scripter, Hanner, Un du it, tu, in pious manner, You'll hev tu go down in yer sock fer a ducat, Er milk old Roan in a wooden bucket: Fer them Republikins--durn their skin-- Hez riz sich a turrible teriff on tin.

Tu cents a pound on British tin-plate!

Why, Hanner, you see, at thet air rate, Accordin tu this ere newspaper-print-- Un it mus be so er it wouldn't' be in't-- It's a dollar un a half on one tin pan, Un about six s.h.i.+llin on a coffee-can, Un ten s.h.i.+llin, Hanner, on a dinner-pail!

Gol! won't it make the workin men squeal-- Thet durned Republikin tax un steal!

They call it Protecs.h.i.+n, but blast my skin Ef it aint a morul political sin-- Thet durned Republikin teriff on tin.

"Un then they hev put a teriff on silk Un satin un velvit un thet air ilk, Un broadcloth un brandy un Havanny cigars, Un them slick silk hats thet our preacher wears; Un he'll hev tu wear humspun un drink skim milk.

Un, Hanner, you see we'll hev tu be savin, Un whittle our store-bill down tu a shavin; You can't go tu meetin in silks; I vum You'll hev tu wear ging-um er stay tu hum."

But Hannah said sharply--"I won't though, I swum!"

And Hannah gazed wistfully on her Jo As he rocked himself mournfully to and fro, And then she looked thoughtfully into the fire, While the sleet fell faster and the wind blew higher, And Jo took a turn at the _Daily Liar_.

1890.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE KENTRY'S AGOIN', I GUESS, TO THE DOGS"]

PAT AND THE PIG

Old Deutchland's the country for sauerkraut and beer, Old England's the land of roast beef and good cheer, Auld Scotland's the mother of gristle and grit, But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit.

Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig, And brought into court to the man in the wig.

The indictment was long and so lumbered with Latin That Pat hardly knew what a pickle was Pat in; But at last it was read to the end, and the wig Said: "Pat, are you guilty of stealing the pig?"

Pat looked very wise, though a trifle forlorn, And he asked of milord that the witness be sworn.

"Bless yer sowl," stammered Pat, "an' the day ye was born!