"Oh, the half-hour has past And this throw is my last!" The old friar exclaimed, when his hook was caught fast By the bough of a tree, And he could not get free, Though he tugg'd and used words you shall not hear from me. But finding his hand must the line disengage, He turned, much excited (but not in a rage), When a ghastly hue over his countenance spread, Before which the colour so instantly fled That it whitened his nose, which was mostly bright red, And made him look just like a calf over-bled, Or a hot piece of pork from a pig too well-fed; For, suddenly shook by a terrible fright, Like a gander when seized by a fox late at night, He discovered his wits had deserted him quite. For the Abbot he spied, Who with slow solemn stride Was approaching, and soon would be close at his side. How he trembled all o'er, and would gladly have died, As he thought of escape, but could see no way how; While the cold perspiration spread over his brow. Oh, how he then wished that the earth would quake too, And split a small crack which would just let him through To shield him from evil he feared would betide, From which he's unable to run or to hide. But as to his wishes the earth's disinclined. He shook himself well, and then struggled to find What he'd lost in the panic--his presence of mind. His line then he snaps from its perch with a crack And throws his rod into the stream with a smack, Although with the fear of not getting it back His heart's pit-a-pat, and is quite on the rack. But he stopped not to think--'twas the work of a minute, He snatches his book up to see what is in it. When, as if spiteful Fate had resolved his disgrace, He finds out 'tis another popped into its place By young Patrick O'Neal, who had thought it fine fun; When the friar, not noticing what he had done, Placed the book in his bosom and bore it away, After dining, self-asked, at the cottage one day. But it now is too late, If unlucky his fate, There is no time the book now to hide; For the Abbot's so near, There would surely appear Something wrong if to hide it he tried. So he shut it up gently and seemed wrapt in mystery, Though all his thoughts dwelt on the marvellous history Of George and the Dragon, who, Saint though he be, He heartily wished in the depths of the sea. Then spake he aloud as the Abbot drew near (In tones like the crow, as melodious and clear), As it much was his wish that it plain might appear That of his good presence he had no idea, Though he did very well know He was close at his elbow. So he moralized thus: "Oh, that men were like us, From pleasure abstaining, From treasure refraining Their hands and their hearts! but, alas! it is vain in This earth for perfection to seek. For all men are for gaining; Gold by some means obtaining; Their covetous wishes not once e'er restraining.