Now back to the friar I fain must desire My reader's attention to turn; Who is round the place looking, While his fish are a-cooking, A snug spot for a nap to discern. A box full of worms he has laid by his side-- A present young Pat never fails to provide, And gives him whenever he sees him. Though often for fun he would place there instead A snail or a frog, or defunct chicken's head; It gave him such pleasure to tease him. For old Peter was one who could not stand a joke, And at one time young Pat got his head nearly broke Through a comical trick which he played him. For as slumb'ring one day by the water he sat, Pat had fixed to his hook the stale corpse of a cat, And then snug in the river's depth laid him. Which the friar, when waking, had deemed a rich prize, And his little mouth watered, and twinkled both eyes, As in scales, in his mind's eye, he weighed him. "I shall lose it, I fear; I've no landing-net here: I am sure it's a carp or a bream. Should he run I am done, While to help me there's none; O that even young Pat could be seen!" At that moment appeared, And up suddenly reared The head of Miss Puss, in a very droll way. While a loud laugh up high, In an oak-tree close by, Told Peter who he for the trick had to pay. "Oh, you imp of all mischief!" he cried, "come down here; For this trick that you've served me I'll make you pay dear." "No, thank you," said Pat, with a kind friendly nod; "I'd rather--much rather--not taste of your rod." Now who could stand this? Oh, not he! Round he lashed His rod; and young Pat, who disliked to be thrashed, Tried to climb up still higher, but losing his hold, Swiftly down to the ground like an o'er-ripe pear roll'd. "His neck's broke!" said Peter; "the mad, careless calf!" But Pat rose unhurt, and ran off with a laugh.
Now deep in the forest the friar had sought A snug shady spot, where no mortal he thought Would ere chance to disturb his repose; For with talking and fright He is tired out quite, And would fain on the world his eyes close. Above his head A tall oak spread Its leafy shade; And 'midst the trees The sportive breeze With young boughs played. From ev'ry bird A song was heard As forth they strayed Some grub to seize, While busy bees A buzzing made. Reclining on a grassy mound, His head a velvet cushion found, And bushes weave a curtain round; Here ponders he the morning's scene, Till things that are with things that seem Together blend and form a dream. Again he feels red-hot with fright, Once more his tale he must recite, Must conjure up a thousand lies To blind Suspicion's wakeful eyes-- Must rise with hope and sink with fear, And all the while must feel most queer.