Now I would not by any means have you suppose That the good Father Basil was just one of those Who entertain views We're so apt to abuse, As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews, Who haunt death-bed scenes, By underhand means To toady or teaze people out of a legacy,-- For few folk, indeed, had such good right to beg as he, Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty, Not only permits, but enjoins, as a duty, Her sons to take care That, let who will be heir, The Pontiff shall not be chous'd out of his share, Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods, As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's; Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods, in short, main -tain principles adverse to statutes of _Mortmain_; Besides, you'll discern It at once, when you learn That Basil had something to give in return, Since it rested with him to say how she should burn, Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all To uses he named, he could say, "You shan't burn at all, Or nothing to signify, Not what you'd dignify So much as even to call it a roast, But a mere little singeing, or scorching at most,-- What many would think not unpleasantly warm,-- Just to keep up appearance--mere matter of form." All this in her ear He declared, but I fear That her senses were wand'ring--she seem'd not to hear, Or, at least understand,--for mere unmeaning talk her Parch'd lips babbled now,--such as "Hookey!"--and "Walker!" --She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt If "his Mother were fully aware he was out?"