The Contrite Priest

Incline, O Mary, from thy throne
To hear a contrite sinner own
His manifold and grievous sins.
Thick as the serried ranks of pins,
But first (for time is precious) hear
What the black score in part may clear.

I always ate (for 'twas thy wish,
On Fridays we should dine on fish)
Turbot or lamprey or whate'er
The cook thought proper to prepare ;
Ay, I have been constrain'd to stoop
To creeping things, and sigh o'er soup
Founded on oysters, taught to swim
For the first time in beardless trim.
Ah, lady ! couldst thou only know
The anguish of my heart and toe !
Help I tis impossible without
Thy help to keep at bay the gout.