Some love the matin-chimes, which tell The hour of prayer to sinner: But better far's the mid-day bell, Which speaks the hour of dinner; For when I see a smoking fish, Or capon drowned in gravy, Or noble haunch of silver dish, Full glad I sing my Ave. My pulpit is an alehouse bench, Whereon I sit so jolly; A smiling rosy country wench My saint and patron holy. I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, I press her ringlets wavy, And in her willing ear I speak A most religious Ave. And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind, And holy saints forgiving; For sure he leads a right good life Who thus admires good living. Above, they say, our flesh is air, Our blood celestial ichor: Oh, grant! 'mid all the changes there, They may not change our liquor! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: HILDRUP TUBBS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE VALSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT OF A FAIR LADY PLAYING WITH A SNAKE by EDMUND WALLER GOD EVERYWHERE by ABRAHAM IBN EZRA PROMETHEUS UNBOUND: THE RED SEA by AESCHYLUS |