"
"I beg your pardon," softly said the monk,
"I fear your Majesty is raving drunk.
I would be courteous."
But the Devil laughed
And slyly winked and sagely shook his head.
"My fawning dog," the sage satanic said,
"Wags not his tail for me but for my bread.
Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye,
And craft grown craftier in this modern day
Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way;
And priestcraft lingers and survives its use;
What was a blessing once is now abuse:
Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf,
The old-time shepherd has become a wolf
And only feeds his flocks to feast himself.
To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps,
For still he thinks, as in the days of old,
The key to holy heaven is made of gold,
That in the game of mortals money is trumps,
That golden darts will pierce e'en Virtue's shield,
And by the salve of gold all sins are healed.
So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence
With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence,
And sinners' souls must groan in Purgatory
Until they pay the admission-fee to glory.
"There was an honest poet once on earth
Who beat all other bardies at a canter;
Rob' Burns his mother called him at his birth.
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