Now a distant rise Presents to the eyes Of the Abbot the hut, and with joy on he flies; It is rugged indeed, But he takes little heed, Though the walls are of mud, and each flower is a weed. Not a sound then was heard, Not a chirp from a bird, Nor yet from a little grasshopper; Should he knock at the shed, Or straight walk in instead? He wish'd to know which was most proper. For there spread o'er his heart such a feeling of awe, He felt nervous whenever he ugly sights saw; And now p'rhaps the bed must be moved from the hovel, Before at the gold he can get--then the shovel: O dear, he's forgot it--oh, what shall he do If there's none within when he penetrates through? Then without much dispatch He uplifted the latch, When he felt 'gainst his legs such a terrible poke, That he staggered with fear, And had swooned away near, Ere he saw 'twas a pig who inflicted the stroke; While a rough Irish laugh on his reverie broke, Whose possessor appeared to enjoy much the joke, And cried, "Och, the pig has got out of the door! Why couldn't you make a slight shindy before You poked in your carcase?--We'd held then his tail--it Must now be 'gen cotched, or some feller will stale it." But a terrible frown From the Abbot proceeded, And he rustled his gown, Which at once Loony heeded; For the priests then were held by the whole of the nation In the highest respect, and in great veneration. "Your pardon, your rev'rence, I knew not 'twas you," He humbly exclaimed, whilst his head he was scratching. "Pray do me the honour to step just into This bit of a dwelling--it p'rhaps may want thatching; Still the holes in the roof make the fire burn better, Though rain, than is pleasant oft makes us much wetter." "No, what I would say I will speak here outside,-- 'Tis of the old lady who yesternight died." "She dead! Oh no, no! Though I oft wished she were, Still yonder she sits in the corner down there, On the edge of a tub, for want of a chair." "Quite true," said the Abbot, "for Socrates tells us, Old ladies in breath are as lasting as bellows; But is she not troubled with gout or rheumatic? Or is she, from rain oft descending, aquatic? "Rheumatics! yes, sure, there's much truth in that question. But what is far worse is her pow'rful digestion; For would ye believe it--within bounds I speak-- A sack of best praties would last but a week, If she was supplied whene'er victuals she'd seek. But she gave us last night such a terrible fright, When we chanced late to come from the wake of old Wright. For her pains were so bad That she raved just like mad, And called for a priest, though no priest could be had. Still up in the morn she rose better than ever. Pain never will kill her, I'm certain,--no, never!