Canto 3.
LE LUTRIN.
29
They countermarch! The Owl Retreats quite routed,
And now they scorn her, whom so late they doubted.
Not unreveng'd! for as she flew, she muted
In Boirude's gaping mouth, triumph'd and hooted;
Rascally Bird, (said he) All Face and Feather!
The Shame of Day; the Boder of Ill Weather!
Dar'st thou presume (profane!) to spice i'th' Quire?
And make the Pulpit A Sir-Reverence higher?
And Scot-free this! No, no, I'm not in sport;
I'le trounce and bounce thee for't i'th' Spiritual Court;
Where Doctors, Proctors, Paritors together
Shann't leave upon thy Naked back one Feather;
I'le make thee then for all thy Hooting, sneak
Like her that scap'd the Devils Arse i' th' Peak:
But talk's but talk! Come Boyes, let's fall to action!
The Owl is flown! the last o'th' Chanters faction!
The Pulpit now is heav'd into the Quire,
And on the Chanter's Seat advanced higher,
Her Rotten ledge repair'd; her Joints that gaped
With Planes united; all was comely shaped!
The Wainscott eccho's to the lab'ring hammer,
The Roof back to the Walls resounds the Clamor;
The Organ-pipes provok'd with this rude Rumbling,
Struck up a Base, and gravely fell a grumbling!
Now Chanter! black's thy Day, thou little thinkest
What work's a brewing; Sleep in Boles thou drinkest,
On both ears; snoring after late Debauches,
Nor dream'st what mischief now thy Head approaches:
Secure thou ly'st unarm'd, unwarn'd of Harms,
Hugging thy Dainty Doxy in thy Arms!
O that some friendly Ghost, in Nightly Vision
Would timously reveal thy sad condition!
Now! now they heave! the hateful Pulpit rearing!
'Twould strike thee dead, wer't thou within the Hearing;
And now they scorn her, whom so late they doubted.
Not unreveng'd! for as she flew, she muted
In Boirude's gaping mouth, triumph'd and hooted;
Rascally Bird, (said he) All Face and Feather!
The Shame of Day; the Boder of Ill Weather!
Dar'st thou presume (profane!) to spice i'th' Quire?
And make the Pulpit A Sir-Reverence higher?
And Scot-free this! No, no, I'm not in sport;
I'le trounce and bounce thee for't i'th' Spiritual Court;
Where Doctors, Proctors, Paritors together
Shann't leave upon thy Naked back one Feather;
I'le make thee then for all thy Hooting, sneak
Like her that scap'd the Devils Arse i' th' Peak:
But talk's but talk! Come Boyes, let's fall to action!
The Owl is flown! the last o'th' Chanters faction!
The Pulpit now is heav'd into the Quire,
And on the Chanter's Seat advanced higher,
Her Rotten ledge repair'd; her Joints that gaped
With Planes united; all was comely shaped!
The Wainscott eccho's to the lab'ring hammer,
The Roof back to the Walls resounds the Clamor;
The Organ-pipes provok'd with this rude Rumbling,
Struck up a Base, and gravely fell a grumbling!
Now Chanter! black's thy Day, thou little thinkest
What work's a brewing; Sleep in Boles thou drinkest,
On both ears; snoring after late Debauches,
Nor dream'st what mischief now thy Head approaches:
Secure thou ly'st unarm'd, unwarn'd of Harms,
Hugging thy Dainty Doxy in thy Arms!
O that some friendly Ghost, in Nightly Vision
Would timously reveal thy sad condition!
Now! now they heave! the hateful Pulpit rearing!
'Twould strike thee dead, wer't thou within the Hearing;
Alas!
