Poem by William Makepeace Thackeray

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!

1. The King on the Tower
2. Peg of Limavaddy
3. The Almack’s Adieu
4. The Last of May
5. My Nora

Print

1965 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version