| |
| A BRACE of sinners, for no good, | |
| Were ordered to the Virgin Mary’s shrine, | |
| Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, | |
| And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. | |
| Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, | 5 |
| With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; | |
| In short, their toes so gentle to amuse. | |
| The priest had ordered peas into their shoes: | |
| A nostrum famous in old popish times | |
| For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: | 10 |
| A sort of apostolic salt, | |
| Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, | |
| For keeping souls of sinners sweet, | |
| Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. | |
| |
| The knaves set off on the same day, | 15 |
| Peas in their shoes, to go and pray; | |
| But very different was their speed, I wot: | |
| One of the sinners galloped on, | |
| Swift as a bullet from a gun; | |
| The other limped, as if he had been shot. | 20 |
| One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried, | |
| Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; | |
| Then home again he nimbly hied, | |
| Made fit with saints above to live forever. | |
| |
| In coming back, however, let me say, | 25 |
| He met his brother rogue about half-way,— | |
| Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended knees, | |
| Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas; | |
| His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, | |
| Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. | 30 |
| |
| “How now,” the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke, | |
| “You lazy lubber!” | |
| “Ods curse it!” cried the other, “’t is no joke; | |
| My feet, once hard as any rock, | |
| Are now as soft as blubber. | 35 |
| |
| “Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear, | |
| As for Loretto, I shall not get there; | |
| No, to the devil my sinful soul must go, | |
| For damme if I ha’n’t lost every toe. | |
| But, brother sinner, pray explain | 40 |
| How ’t is that you are not in pain. | |
| What power hath worked a wonder for your toes, | |
| Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, | |
| Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, | |
| Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes? | 45 |
| |
| “How is ’t that you can like a greyhound go, | |
| Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!” | |
| “Why,” cried the other, grinning, “you must know, | |
| That just before I ventured on my journey, | |
| To walk a little more at ease, | 50 |
| I took the liberty to boil my peas.” | |
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