The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out;
The friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels
In the toes and the heels.
They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:—
But, no!—no such thing;
They can't find the ring;

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And the Abbot declared that, “when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popped in, and prigg'd it!”

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly curs'd that rascally thief!
He curs'd him at board, he curs'd him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He curs'd him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He curs'd him in eating, he curs'd him in drinking,
He curs'd him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He curs'd him in sitting, in standing, in lying,
He curs'd him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He curs'd him living, he curs'd him dying!—
Never was heard such a terrible curse;
But, what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

The day was gone,
The night came on,
The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;
His pinions droop'd, he could hardly stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, “That's him!—

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That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!”
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
“Pray, be so good as to walk this way!”
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the ring, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution.
When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd:
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopped now about
With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.

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If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumber'd in pray'r time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great “caw,”
As much as to say, “Don't do so any more!”
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw!
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,
So they cannonized him by the name of Jem Crow!