It skills not now To tell you how The transmogrified Pagan perform'd his vow; How he quitted his home, Travell'd to Rome, And went to St. Peter's and look'd at the Dome, And obtain'd from the Pope an assurance of bliss, And kiss'd--whatever he gave him to kiss-- Toe, relic, embroidery, naught came amiss; And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban Hung up in the Sistine Chapel, by way Of a relic--and how it hangs there to this day.-- Suffice it to tell, Which will do quite as well, That the whole of the Convent the miracle saw, And the Abbot's report was sufficient to draw Ev'ry _bon Catholique_ in _la belle France_ to Blois, Among others, the Monarch himself, François, The Archbishop of Rheims, and his "Pious Jack-daw,"[55] And there was not a man in Church, Chapel, or Meeting-house, Still less in _Cabaret_, Hotel, or Eating-house, But made an oration, And said, "In the nation If ever a man deserved canonization, It was the kind, pitiful, pious Aloys."-- So the Pope says,--says he, "Then a Saint he shall be!" So he made him a Saint,--and remitted the fee. What became of the Pagan I really can't say; But I think I've been told, When he'd enter'd their fold, And was now a Franciscan some twenty days old, He got up one fine morning before break of day, Put the _Pyx_ in his pocket--and then ran away. MORAL. I think we may coax out a moral or two From the facts which have lately come under our view. First--Don't meddle with Saints!--for you'll find if you do, They're what Scotch people call, "kittle cattle to shoe!" And when once they have managed to take you in tow, It's a deuced hard matter to make them let go! Now to you, wicked Pagans!--who wander about, Up and down Regent Street every night, "on the scout,"-- Recollect the Police keep a sharpish look-out, And, if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to, Till they catch you at last _in flagrante delicto!_-- Don't the inference draw That because he of Blois Suffer'd _one_ to bilk "Old father Antic the Law," That _our_ May'rs and _our_ Aldermen--and we've a City full-- Shew themselves, at _our_ Guildhall, quite so pitiful! Lastly, as to the Pagan who play'd such a trick, First assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick, There is but one thing which occurs to me--that Is,--Don't give too much credit to people who "rat!" --Never forget Early habit's a net Which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh; And "What's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh!" We must all be aware Nature's prone to rebel, as Old Juvenal tells us, _Naturam expellas_, _Tamen usque recurret_! There's no making Her rat So that all that I have on this head to advance Is,--whatever they think of these matters in France, There's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here, "YOU NEVER CAN MAKE A SILK PURSE OF A SOW'S EAR!"