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Poem by William Makepeace Thackeray


Friars 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!



                      William Makepeace Thackeray


William Makepeace Thackeray's other poems:
  1. A Woeful New Ballad of the Protestant Conspiracy to Take the Popes Life
  2. The King Of Brentfords Testament
  3. Mrs. Katherines Lantern
  4. A Doe in the City
  5. Lines upon My Sisters Portrait


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