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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. The Minaret Bells
  2. The Rocks
  3. Larry OToole
  4. A Tragic Story
  5. The White Squall

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