FRIAR'S SONG.

Some love the matin-chimes, which tell

The hour of prayer to sinner:

But better far's the mid-day bell,

Which speaks the hour of dinner;

For when I see a smoking fish,

Or capon drown'd in gravy,

Or noble haunch on silver dish,

Full glad I sing my ave.

My pulpit is an alehouse bench,

Whereon I sit so jolly;

A smiling rosy country wench

My saint and patron holy.

I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,

I press her ringlets wavy,

And in her willing ear I speak

A most religious ave.

And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind,

And holy saints forgiving;

For sure he leads a right good life

Who thus admires good living.

Above, they say, our flesh is air,

Our blood celestial ichor:

Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,

They may not change our liquor!