Still rings in his ear, Distinct and clear, Abracadabra! that word of fear! And the two which I never yet happen'd to hear. Still doth he spy, With Fancy's eye, The Broomstick at work, and the Saint standing by; And he chuckles, and says to himself with glee, "Aha! that Broomstick shall work for _me_!" Hark!--that swell O'er flood and o'er fell, Mountain, and dingle, and moss-cover'd dell! List!--'tis the sound of the Compline bell, And St. Dunstan is quitting his ivied cell; Peter, I wot, Is off like a shot, Or a little dog scalded by something that's hot, For he hears his Master approaching the spot Where he'd listened so long, though he knew he ought not: Peter remember'd his Master's frown-- He trembled--he'd not have been caught for a crown; Howe'er you may laugh, He had rather, by half, Have run up to the top of the tower and jump'd down. * * * * * The Compline hour is past and gone, Evening service is over and done; The monks repair To their frugal fare, A snug little supper of something light And digestible, ere they retire for the night. For, in Saxon times, in respect to their cheer, St. Austin's Rule was by no means severe, But allowed, from the Beverley Roll 'twould appear, Bread and cheese, and spring onions, and sound table-beer, And even green peas, when they were not too dear; Not like the rule of La Trappe, whose chief merit is Said to consist in its greater austerities; And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws, Ne'er are suffer'd to speak, Think only in Greek, And subsist, as the Bears do, by sucking their paws. Astonish'd I am The gay Baron Geramb, With his head sav'ring more of the Lion than Lamb, Could e'er be persuaded to join such a set--I Extend the remark to Signor Ambrogetti.-- For a monk of La Trappe is as thin as a rat, While an Austin Friar was jolly and fat; Though, of course, the fare to which I allude, With as good table-beer as ever was brew'd, Was all "caviare to the multitude," Extending alone to the clergy, together in Hall assembled,--and not to Lay-brethren. St. Dunstan himself sits there at his post, On what they say is Called a Dais, O'erlooking the whole of his clerical host, And eating poach'd eggs with spinach and toast; Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair, But where is the sixth?--Where's Peter!--Ay, WHERE? 'Tis an evening in June, And a little half moon, A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on, Gleaming and beaming, And dancing the stream in, Has made her appearance above the horizon; Just such a half moon as you see, in a play, On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey, Or the fair Turk who weds with the "Noble Lord Bateman;" --_Vide_ plate in George Cruickshank's memoirs of that great man.