I  AM a friar of orders gray,

      And down in the valleys I take my way;

      I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;

      Good store of venison fills my scrip;

      My long bead-roll I merrily chant;

      Where’er I walk no money I want;

      And why I’m so plump the reason I tell:

      Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

      What baron or squire,

      Or knight of the shire,

      Lives half so well as a holy friar?

      After supper, of heaven I dream,

      But that is a pullet and clouted cream;

      Myself by denial I mortify —

      With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;

      I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin —

      With old sack wine I’m lined within;

      A chirping cup is my matin song,

      And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding-dong.

      What baron or squire,

      Or knight of the shire,

      Lives half so well as a holy friar?

      A  COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit

      (For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),

      Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it

      In splendid style.

      “One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though

      The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,

      You lack a library, dear sir, for show,

      If not for use.”

      “’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,

      “The lumber-room in yonder northern wing

      (I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be

      The very thing.

      “I’ll have it fitted up without delay

      With shelves and presses of the newest mode.

      And rarest wood, befitting every way

      A squire’s abode.

      “And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch

      My coachman – a most knowing fellow – down,

      To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch

      Of books in town.”

      But ere the library was half supplied

      With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,

      The booby squire repented him, and cried

      Unto himself:

      “This room is much more roomy than I thought;

      Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice

      To fill it, and would cost, however bought,

      A plaguy price.

      “Now, as I only want them for their looks,

      It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,

      And cost me next to nothing, if the books

      Were made of wood.

      “It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal

      A coat of paint – a colourable dress,

      To look like calf or vellum, and conceal

      Its nakedness.

      And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,

      Whatever is most excellent and rare

      Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same),

      Assembled there.“

      The work was done; the simulated hoards

      Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.

      In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,

      Were all of wood.

      From bulky folios down to slender twelves,

      The choicest tomes in many an even row,

      Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves,

      A goodly show.

      With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’d

      The best collection ever form’d in Spain,

      What wonder if the owner grew at last

      Supremely vain?

      What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,

      And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began,

      Despite his ignorance, to think himself

      A learned man?

      Let every amateur, who merely looks

      To backs and bindings, take the hint, and sell

      His costly library; for painted books

      Would serve as well.

      BEYOND the sunny Philippines

      An island lies, whose name I do not know;

      But that’s of little consequence, if so

      You understand that there they had no hens,

      Till, by a happy chance, a traveller,

      After a while, carried some poultry there.

      Fast they increased as anyone could wish,

      Until fresh eggs became the common dish.