Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Walter Herries Pollock b. 1850Father Francis
“I
Is this the way wherein ye live?”
We lightly think of virtue,
Enjoyment cannot hurt you.
Of gallant truth and constancy.”
We find new loves the meetest,
And stolen kisses sweetest.
In praise of heaven’s mighty king.”
We deem it is our duty
To chant our darlings’ beauty.
The joy beyond no soul can measure.”
Alas! we are but mortal,
And much prefer the portal.
But lost will be your souls, I trow.”
Nay, Father, make you merry;
Come, drawer, bring some sherry.
Still less—Ha—well—’t is fine canary.”
Mark how his old blood prances—
A stoup for Father Francis!
And hath been long time in the wood.”
Mark how his old eye dances—
More wine for Father Francis!
Might well drink here till judgement-day.”
Now for soft words and glances—
But where is Father Francis?
I always sleep upon the floor.”
Alas! for old wine’s chances;
A shutter for Father Francis!