Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! --When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd, He grew sleek, and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air, No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. He hopp'd now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied,--or if any one swore,-- Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remark'd, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint The Conclave determined to make him a Saint; And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, So they canonised him by the name of Jem Crow! [Illustration: THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.] A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN. "This holy childe Dunstan was borne in y^e yere of our Lorde ix. hondred & xxv. that tyme regnynge in this londe Kinge Athelston. * * * "Whan it so was that Saynt Dunstan was wery of prayer than used he to werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for to eschewe ydelnes." _Golden Legend._ St. Dunstan stood in his ivied tower, Alembic, crucible, all were there; When in came Nick to play him a trick, In guise of a damsel passing fair. Every one knows How the story goes: He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose. But I beg that you won't for a moment suppose That I mean to go through, in detail, to you A story at least as trite as it's true; Nor do I intend An instant to spend On the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend, When, bolting away to a chamber remote, Inconceivably bored by his Witen-gemote, Edwy left them all joking, And drinking, and smoking, So tipsily grand, they'd stand nonsense from no King, But sent the Archbishop Their Sovereign to fish up, With a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel taps, Unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps. You must not be plagued with the same story twice, And perhaps have seen this one, by W. DYCE, At the Royal Academy, very well done, And mark'd in the catalogue Four, seven, one.