THE ABBOT OF UNREASON.

I looked over the balustrade— The twilight had come— And saw the pretty waiting-maid Kiss Roland, the page.

My lady heard the wolf-dog's chain Clank on the floor; Sly Roland caught it up again, And whistled a song.

Oh! they think that my heart is cold, Under my gown; Not till I blacken into mould Will it cease to burn.

Burn, burn for such sweet red lips! I am almost mad, Even to touch her finger tips, When we meet alone.

Roland, the page, goes here and there, Loving, and loved, Women like his devil-may-care, Till they are forgot!

Whether I am in castle or inn, With sinner or saint, Never can I a woman win,— I am but a priest!