And having got no portion small of buffeting and tussling, At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat the mayor a-guzzling, And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white sprig muslin.
[And the mayor, mayoress, and aldermen, being tipsie refused to go church.]
Around the table in a ring the guests were drinking heavy; They'd drunk the church, and drunk the king, and the army and the navy; In fact they'd toasted everything. The prior said, "God save ye!"
The mayor cried, "Bring a silver cup--there's one upon the beaufét; And, Prior, have the venison up--it's capital rechauffé. And so, Sir Priest, you've come to sup? And pray you, how's Saint Sophy?" The prior's face quite red was grown, with horror and with anger; He flung the proffered goblet down--it made a hideous clangor; And 'gan a-preaching with a frown--he was a fierce haranguer.
He tried the mayor and aldermen--they all set up a-jeering: He tried the common-councilmen--they too began a-sneering; He turned towards the may'ress then, and hoped to get a hearing. He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the muslin snowy, "To church, to church, my sweet mistress!" he cried; "the way I'll show ye." Alas, the lady-mayoress fell back as drunk as Chloe!
Out from this dissolute and drunken court Went the good prior, his eyes with weeping dim: He tried the people of a meaner sort-- They too, alas, were bent upon their sport, And not a single soul would follow him! But all were swigging schnaps and guzzling beer.
He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and spouses, Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses: Alas, unthinking of the danger near! One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded, The rest were sharing in the general feast: "God wot, our tipsy town is poorly warded; Sweet Saint Sophia help us!" cried the priest.
Alone he entered the cathedral gate, Careful he locked the mighty oaken door; Within his company of monks did wait, A dozen poor old pious men--no more. Oh, but it grieved the gentle prior sore, To think of those lost souls, given up to drink and fate!
[And shut himself into Saint Sophia's chapel with his brethren.]
The mighty outer gate well barred and fast, The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones, And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones, They through the solitary chancel passed. The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast, And rendered, ghost-like, melancholy tones.