Last night our Abbot blessed his saint
As he knelt before his tomb,
And tapers from the altar quaint,
Looked out o'er the cloister's gloom;
And every frere, with forehead bare,
And bent, his beads must tell,
And all the while, through the dusky aisle,
Echoed the sullen bell;
And good St. Nicholas heard his prayer,
And gave a dispensation,
In case his winter's meagre fare
Required emendation.
A miracle! a miracle!
The holy father cried,
When he stood again within his cell,
And the almoner at his side.
For golden flasks of Cyprus wine
In the water jugs were stored,
And venison sent a steam divine
From off the fasting board.
And since that time, both eve and prime,
Right hard doth our Abbot pray,
'Fore a goodly haunch, to keep him staunch,
While his monks are far away.
And though, perchance, the mazy dance
Suits not with shaven frere,
If right I read yon gentle glance,
He'll not be useless there.