But _Chacun à son gout_--this is talking at random-- We all know "_De gustibus non disputandum!_" So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story, The Cathedral of Blois-- Where the Sainted Aloys Is by this time, you'll find, "left alone in his glory," "In the dead of the night," though with labour opprest, Some "mortals" disdain "the calm blessings of rest;" Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best To break open a door, or the lid of a chest; And the gipsy who close round your premises prowls, To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls, Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls, --So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls, To say nothing at all of these troublesome "Swells" Who come from the playhouses, "flash-kens," and "hells," To pull off people's knockers, and ring people's bells. Well--'tis now the hour Ill things have power! And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views, Have long been in bed, and enjoying a snooze,-- Nought is waking Save Mischief, and "Faking,"[54] And a few who are sitting up brewing or baking, When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue, Who stands in his slippers some six feet two (A rather remarkable height for a Jew), Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew, Into which, during service, he'd managed to slide himself-- While all were intent on the anthem, and hide himself. From his lurking place, With stealthy pace, Through the "long-drawn" aisle he begins to crawl, As you see a cat walk on the top of a wall, When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall. --He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel, (An invention on which we've improved a great deal Of late years--the substitute best to rely on 's what Jones of the Strand calls his _Pyrogeneion_,) He strikes with despatch!--his Tinder catches!-- Now where is his candle?--and where are his matches?-- 'Tis done!--they are found!-- He stands up, and looks round By the light of a "dip" of sixteen to the pound! --What is it that now makes his nerves to quiver?-- His hand to shake--and his limbs to shiver?-- Fear?--Pooh!--it is only a touch of the liver,-- All is silent--all is still-- It's "gammon"--it's "stuff!"--he may do what he will! Carefully now he approaches the shrine, In which, as I've mentioned before, about nine, They had placed in such state the lamented Divine! But not to worship--No!--No such thing!-- His aim is--TO "PRIG" THE PASTORAL RING!!