THE ALTAR-BOY by John O'Brien

Now McEvoy was altar-boy
   As long as I remember;
He was, bedad, a crabbéd lad,
   And sixty come December.
Faith, no one dared to "interfere"
   In things the which concernin'
'Twas right and just to him to trust
   Who had the bit o' learnin'
To serve the priest; and here at least
   He never proved defaulter;
So, wet or dry, you could rely
   To find him on the Altar.


The acolyte in surplice white
   Some admiration rouses:
But McEvoy was altar-boy
   In "Sund'y coat-'n-trouses."
And out he'd steer, the eye severe
   The depths behind him plumbin"
In dread, I wot (he once was "cot"),
   The priest might, not be comin':
Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,
   No more he'd fail or falter,
But set likewise with hands and eyes
   He'd move about the Altar.


A master-stroke of other folk
   Might start the opposition,
And some, mebbe, in jealousy
   Bedoubt their erudition;
But McEvoy was altar-boy
   And, spite of all their chattin',
It "put the stuns" on lesser ones
   To hear him run the Latin.
And faith, he knew the business through,
   The rubrics and the psalter;
You never met his "aikals" yet
   When servin' on the Altar.


The priest, indeed, might take the lead
   By right of Holy Orders,
But McEvoy was altar-boy,
   And just upon the borders.
So sermons dry he'd signify
   With puckered brows behoovin',
An', if you please, at homilies
   He'd nod the head approvin';
And all the while a cute old smile
   Picked out the chief defaulter;
Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eye
   Would "vet" you from the Altar.