Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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THE CONVENT DRUDGE.
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
145
THE CONVENT DRUDGE.
(Temp. Alfred.)
No, do not jeer; my brain is old and strained
With many years of trouble, so 'twill not bend
To these new labours. This King David psalm
I cannot learn; and when I reach the end,
The prelude I forget. But do not, brothers, mock,
I know the chapel boys can run it off
While I am tracing every letter's rim
With my chopped finger; but yet do not scoff,
My sense is dull—this horny eye grows dim.
With many years of trouble, so 'twill not bend
To these new labours. This King David psalm
I cannot learn; and when I reach the end,
The prelude I forget. But do not, brothers, mock,
I know the chapel boys can run it off
While I am tracing every letter's rim
With my chopped finger; but yet do not scoff,
My sense is dull—this horny eye grows dim.
I was a sea-king once, and drove the keel
Through sand and wrack, and now the convent's drudge,
I split the firing-wood, and wash the bowl,
And clean the Abbot's horse, and do not grudge,
Knowing dear Jesus died upon the tree
For serf as well as jarl, although the prior
Smite my thin cheek because I try to sing,
And do it hoarsely, putting out the quire.
Through sand and wrack, and now the convent's drudge,
I split the firing-wood, and wash the bowl,
And clean the Abbot's horse, and do not grudge,
Knowing dear Jesus died upon the tree
For serf as well as jarl, although the prior
Smite my thin cheek because I try to sing,
And do it hoarsely, putting out the quire.
146
Sometimes, all weary with this toil of brain,
I let my psalter drop, and fall asleep
Under the Abbot's desk, and dream of seas
Frothed white with the rough wind that ploughs so deep
Round Arrow Point. The organ's like the breeze,
I start and shout, “Luff, luff;” and a rough blow
Drives me awake, and then the broad sunshine
Falls on me, and when I wake, as if in heaven,
They send me out to prune the hill-side vine.
I let my psalter drop, and fall asleep
Under the Abbot's desk, and dream of seas
Frothed white with the rough wind that ploughs so deep
Round Arrow Point. The organ's like the breeze,
I start and shout, “Luff, luff;” and a rough blow
Drives me awake, and then the broad sunshine
Falls on me, and when I wake, as if in heaven,
They send me out to prune the hill-side vine.
And when I sit me down beside the stub,
To prune, and rest, and try to read the hymn,
The chapel boys draw round and point and mock:
And if I chase them from the copse-wood dim,
Sing their lewd songs, and call me “Danish churl,”
“Ale-bibbing Dane,” and “Pirate,” bid me go
And watch the wreck, or strip the dying serf.
They steal my meal, and give me mock and blow.
To prune, and rest, and try to read the hymn,
The chapel boys draw round and point and mock:
And if I chase them from the copse-wood dim,
Sing their lewd songs, and call me “Danish churl,”
“Ale-bibbing Dane,” and “Pirate,” bid me go
And watch the wreck, or strip the dying serf.
They steal my meal, and give me mock and blow.
Yet I am happy when the windows shine,
And the strong organ thunders jar the quire,
When the angelic voices soar and rise,
And perfume rises from the incense fire;
Then sound, and scent, and colours fill the sense
With Paradise delights, and David's songs
Go up and cleave the sky, and seraphs come
And fill the place, and mingle with the throngs.
And the strong organ thunders jar the quire,
When the angelic voices soar and rise,
And perfume rises from the incense fire;
147
With Paradise delights, and David's songs
Go up and cleave the sky, and seraphs come
And fill the place, and mingle with the throngs.
“The Danes!” what! Norsemen clashing at the gate?
Thank God, I die a saint. Bring me the axe
I threw by when I sought this convent gate:
Where are those scoffers now? I pay the tax,
And lead the sally. Soon a martyr's blood,
Shall save the shrine. Look out the stoutest men,
And arm. Quick, quick, bring out the good king's crown,
The relics, and the image; to his den
We will drive Odin down—ye pagans, down.
Thank God, I die a saint. Bring me the axe
I threw by when I sought this convent gate:
Where are those scoffers now? I pay the tax,
And lead the sally. Soon a martyr's blood,
Shall save the shrine. Look out the stoutest men,
And arm. Quick, quick, bring out the good king's crown,
The relics, and the image; to his den
We will drive Odin down—ye pagans, down.
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