Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
The Jackdaw of Rheims
By Richard Harris Barham (1788–1845)T
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,—
In sooth, a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
Through the motley rout,
The little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there,
Like a dog in a fair;
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all.
With a saucy air
He perched on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat;
And he peered in the face
Of his Lordship’s Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if to say,
“We two are the greatest folks here to-day!”
And the priests with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, “The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!”
The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,
And six little singing-boys,—dear little souls!—
In nice clean faces and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Embossed, and filled with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Poured lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope!
One little boy more
A napkin bore
Of the best white diaper fringed with pink,
And a cardinal’s hat marked in permanent ink.
Of these nice little boys dressed all in white;
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody ’s dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they ’re about,
But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;
The friars are kneeling,
And hunting and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colored shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels
In the toes and the heels.
They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,—
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,—
They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs;
But, no!—no such thing,—
They can’t find the ring!
And the Abbot declared that “when nobody twigged it,
Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!”
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright.
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying;
He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!—
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse!
The night came on,
The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;
When the sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw
No longer gay,
As on yesterday,
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;
His pinions drooped,—he could hardly stand,—
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried,
“That ’s him!
That ’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,
That ’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s ring!”
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turned his bald head as much as to say,
“Pray be so good as to walk this way!”
Slower and slower
He limped on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, ’t was really absurd:
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal’s chair.
He hopped now about
With a gait devout;
At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor’s beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great “Caw!”
As much as to say, “Don’t do so any more!”
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they “never had known such a pious Jackdaw!”
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odor of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.
And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It ’s the custom at Rome new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow!