"Holy Church denieth all search 'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams; And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock, Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs. "Then lay, Fair Daughter, thy fears aside, For here this day shalt thou dine with me!"-- "Now naye, now naye," the fair maiden cried; "In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be! "Friends would whisper, and foes would frown, Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree, And ill mote it match with thy fair renown That a wandering damsel dine with thee! "There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, With beans and lettuces fair to see; His lenten fare now let me share, I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!" --"Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, To our patron Saint foul shame it were Should wayworn guest, with toil oppress'd, Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare. "There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, And Roger the Monk shall our convives be; Small scandal I ween shall then be seen; They are a goodly companie!" The Abbot hath donn'd his mitre and ring, His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine; And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring To the board a magnificent turkey and chine. The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety; Liver, and gizzard, and all are there; Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce _Benedicite_ Over more lucious or delicate fare. But no pious stave he, no _Pater_ or _Ave_ Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face: She ask'd him for stuffing, she ask'd him for gravy, She ask'd him for gizzard:--but not for Grace! Yet gaily the Lord Abbot smiled, and press'd, And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup fill'd; And he help'd his guest to a bit of the breast, And he sent the drumsticks down to be grill'd. There was no lack of old Sherris sack, Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright; And aye, as he drain'd off his cup with a smack, He grew less pious and more polite. She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice, And she drank as Lady ought not to drink; And he press'd her hand 'neath the table thrice, And he wink'd as Abbot ought not to wink. And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, Sat each with a napkin under his chin; But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk, So they put him to bed, and they tuck'd him in! The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed; And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise, As he peep'd through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes. In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing,-- He could not distinguish the words very plain, But 'twas all about "Cole," and "jolly old Soul," And "Fiddlers," and "Punch," and things quite as profane.