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THE CONVENT BELLE.

There once was a Novice, as I've heard tell,
A Novice of some renown,
Whose raven hair in ringlets fell
O'er his yet unshaven crown;
But his vows as yet he had never said,
Except to a blooming blue-eyed maid,
And she had never confessed till now,
To this Novice, who yet had not made his vow.
So pious she grew, that early and late
She was tapping, alone, at the convent gate;
And so often she went her sins to tell,
That the villagers called her the Convent Belle.
Ding dong,
My song,
My song's of a Convent Belle.

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The Novice continued the maid to hear,
And swiftly the months went round;
He had nearly passed his trial-year,
Before he was guilty found.
But then suspicion began to spread,
So the cowl he cast from his curly head,
The maiden he wedded next morning tide,
And his penitent pale was his blooming bride!
The prior he stormed at the bridegroom meek,
Who answered him fast,—with a smile on his cheek.
“Good father, indeed I have acted well,—
I was only ringing the Convent Belle.”
Ding dong,
My song,
My song's of a Convent Belle