The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, And six little singing-boys--dear little souls In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles-- Came, in order due, two by two, Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more a napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a Cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; From his finger he draws his costly turquoise: And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs; But, no! no such thing,--they can't find THE RING!
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse!
The day was gone, the night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,-- His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turned his bald head as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower he limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING, in the nest of the little Jackdaw!