| |
| YESTERNIGHT I shot ten down, | |
| Monday clove a shaven crown— | |
| That beat all; but—gelden loo!— | |
| I quite forgot the other two. | |
| |
| Now the old kirk is alight, | 5 |
| It will flare all through the night,— | |
| Altars, crucifix, and shrine: | |
| Curse the Mass and drink this wine. | |
| |
| Pile the chasubles and copes,— | |
| Why, here ’s clothes for fifty Popes! | 10 |
| How the incense stinks! but whesh!— | |
| That ’s the greasy abbot’s flesh. | |
| |
| Burn the mass-books, red and gold,— | |
| Here ’s a Breviary,—but hold! | |
| Scorch the Fathers, twenty score: | 15 |
| They will build the fire up more. | |
| |
| Break the benches, Orangemann | |
| Here ’s a work for Lutheran. | |
| Hoog and Hendrick, mind the fire— | |
| Hear it bellow in the choir! | 20 |
| |
| Cratz and Henders, hew the roof; | |
| Toppler, ’ware the beams, and Hoof! | |
| Let the saints go—what a roar! | |
| Hell has got five Papists more! | |
| |
| “Here ’s a priest we caught at prayer!” | 25 |
| Would the rascal had more hair! | |
| Then we ’d hang him to the vane, | |
| There to bleach in sun and rain. | |
| |
| Tie the match-cord round his thumb, | |
| Take this scarf and gag him dumb. | 30 |
| When I fire my pistol off, | |
| Drag the Papist to the trough. | |
| |
| Scoop me out this diamond eye: | |
| Holy Virgin jewels? Fie! | |
| See that saint in cloth of gold;— | 35 |
| Paul made tents, so we are told. | |
| |
| Chop that screen up; lop the throne,— | |
| Only Popes should sit alone; | |
| Smash that blood-red window-pane: | |
| Black Rome’s loss is Fleming’s gain. | 40 |
| |
| Shout!—the smoke comes,—brothers, shout! | |
| And the quick fire-tongues leap out. | |
| Ha! the nave has got it—loo! | |
| And the roof is catching too! | |
| |
| Now the end of all begins,— | 45 |
| Heaven helps their many sins. | |
| Down the beams crash through the dark! | |
| What a splash of smoke and spark! | |
| |
| Three monks cower beside the bell, | |
| Nearly red-hot; faster swell, | 50 |
| Stifling smoke-cloud, so it smother | |
| One by one each praying brother. | |
| |
| Hoo! the old pile ’s gone at last! | |
| One had thought it would stand fast. | |
| Hurrah! for the Pope’s nest burnt! | 55 |
| Is n’t our day’s pay well earnt? | |
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