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The Friar |
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With songs that jovial spectres chaunt, Our old refectory still we haunt.
The traveller hears our midnight mirth : "O list ! " he cries, " the haunted choir !
The merriest ghost that walks the earth, Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar." Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry
ghosts are we : Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport To be laid in that Red Sea ! |
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THE FRIAR1
By Owen Jones (1809-1874?)
A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store,
And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; He mounted his horse in the night at the door,
And sat with his face to the crupper. " Some rogue," quoth the friar, " quite dead to remorse,
Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse,
While I was engaged with the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity, glug."
The tail of his steed pointed south on the vale, 'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level.
But when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scampered due north like the devil.
1 Set to music by G. Herbert Rodwell. Published by B. Williams, 11 Paternoster Row. |
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