The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook: A Comic Legend — John Shaqi
The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook: A Comic LegendNovice, active 19th century
General
The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook: A Comic Legend
Novice, active 19th century
Fishing -- Poetry; Poetry
I thought as I lay on my soft heather bed
That a monarch might envy my feelings.
But, alas! the next day,
The young Baron that way
Chanced to pass as out hunting he rode,
Who stopp'd to inquire,
In tones full of ire,
Who had dared to erect that abode
In his favorite glen,
Which he occupied when
He gave a grand fête out in open air?
Then very soon after some servants appear'd,
Who quickly began, as I sadly had fear'd,
To put my poor cottage quite out of repair.
How I moaned! how I groaned!
Their compassion to raise.
Though all proved, alas! of no use.
They cared not. They dared not,
Against what their lord says,
To act if they that way should choose.
So they dragged off the thatch,
And tore down each rafter;
While I underneath catch
The dust, and their laughter;
And would not remove till all was destroyed,
As if 'twas my anguish the ruffians enjoyed.
'Again in a hurry you'll not build,' said they,
As lifting they bore me with speed far away,
Though roaring and screaming with pain.
They saw I was fainting yet checked not their pace;
And left me at last in a lone barren place,
Where shelter I looked for in vain.
For the sun seemed to scorch with his terrible might,
And I feared that the damp chills descending at night
Would double my aches and my pain.
But soon o'er the sky such a black cloud spread
That quickly the rays of the bright sun fled;
As it darker and darker grew.
Then the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared,
The hail and the rain down in torrents poured,
And the wind tempestuous blew.
I was soon soaked through, while each drop of rain
And the dart-like hail caused a shoot of pain,
Till I raved with torture wild;
And swore, in the darkness of fell despair,
As I tore in my fury my whit'ning hair--
Though weak as a puny child.
(For I wished to move, but in vain I tried,)
I had slain myself, and had willingly died,
Though sworn to be revenged.
For I swore that nothing should cool my rage,
No kindness hereafter my hate assuage,
Till I'd myself avenged.'
The gipsy here stopped short and breathed,
And much that rest she needed;
But soon as she had strength received
Thus on the tale proceeded:--
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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