Though Wiseman and Dullman * combine against

Newman,

With Doctors and Proctors, and say he's no true man. -But this by the way. -The Convent I speak about Had Saints in scores-they said Mass week and week

about;

And the two now on duty were each, for their piety, "Second to none" in that holy society,

And well might have borne Those words which

are worn

By our “Nulli secundus" Club-poor dear lost

muttons

Of Guardsmen-on Club days, inscribed on their buttons.

They would read, write, and speak Latin,
Hebrew, and Greek,

A radish-bunch munch for a lunch, or a leek;

Though scoffers and boobies Ascribed certain
rubies

That garnished the nose of the good Father Hilary
To the overmuch use of Canary and Sillery,
-Some said spirituous compounds of viler distillery-

Ah! little reck'd they That with Friars, who say
Fifty Paters a night, and a hundred a day,
A very slight sustenance goes a great way-

* The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.-I am not quite sure as to the orthography; it's idem sonans, at all events.

Thus the consequence was that his colleague, Basilius,
Won golden opinions, by looking more bilious,
From all who conceived strict monastical duty
By no means conducive to personal beauty;
And being more meagre, and thinner, and paler,
He was snapt up at once by the bandy-legg'd Tailor.

The latter's concern For a speedy return Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals, Or go round to his shrines, and snuff all his Saint's candles;

Still less had he leisure to change the hair-shirt he Had worn the last twenty years-probably thirty, Which not being wash'd all that time, had grown dirty.

It seems there's a sin in The wearing clean linen, Which Friars must eschew at the very beginning, Though it makes them look frowsy, and drowsy, and blowsy,

And-a rhyme modern etiquette never allows ye.-
As for the rest, E'en if time had not prest,
It didn't much matter how Basil was drest,
Nor could there be any great need for adorning,
The Night being almost at odds with the Morning.

Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon

is high,

And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the sky,

While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes

whispering down the glen,

And one fond voice alone is heard-oh! Night is lovely then!

But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain,

But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,

When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light,

Where all we love is tading fast-how terrible is Night!!

More terrible yet, If you happen to get By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long, Has been, what the vulgar call "coming it strong" In all sorts of ways that are naughty and wrong

As Confessions are sacred, it's not very facile
To ascertain what the old hag said to Basil;

But whatever she said, It filled him with dread,
And made all his hair stand on end on his head-
No great feat to perform, inasmuch as said hair
Being clipped by the tonsure, his crown was left bare,
So of course Father Basil had little to spare;

But the little he had Seem'd as though't had
gone mad,

Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears
In the two little tufts on the top of his ears.