"With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet; Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet.
"Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still? So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will."
"Might I stay the sun above us, good sir Bishop?" Canute cried; "Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide.
"Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?" Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my lord, are thine." Canute turned towards the ocean--"Back!" he said, "thou foaming brine.
"From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat: Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!"
But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore; Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the king and courtiers bore.
And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey: And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway.
Some love the matin-chimes, which tell The hour of prayer to sinner: But better far's the mid-day bell, Which speaks the hour of dinner; For when I see a smoking fish, Or capon drown'd in gravy, Or noble haunch on silver dish, Full glad I sing my ave.
My pulpit is an alehouse bench, Whereon I sit so jolly; A smiling rosy country wench My saint and patron holy. I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, I press her ringlets wavy, And in her willing ear I speak A most religious ave.
And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind, And holy saints forgiving; For sure he leads a right good life Who thus admires good living. Above, they say, our flesh is air, Our blood celestial ichor: Oh, grant! mid all the changes there, They may not change our liquor!
Before I lost my five poor wits, I mind me of a Romish clerk, Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, Beside the belted horseman sits. Methought I saw the grisly sprite Jump up but now behind my Knight.