The Barefooted Friar
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
And is brought home at even-song bunny'd through with a spear;
I confess him in haste - for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.
Your monarch? - Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!
The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.
He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.
He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.
Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Related quotes
Friar Lubin. (From The French)
To gallop off to town post-haste,
So oft, the times I cannot tell;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,--
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,
To honor virtue, and pursue it,
That's a pious, Christian deed,--
Friar Lubin can not do it.
To mingle, with a knowing smile,
The goods of others with his own,
And leave you without cross or pile,
Friar Lubin stands alone.
To say 't is yours is all in vain,
If once he lays his finger to it;
For as to giving back again,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid,
Cunning pander need you none,--
Friar Lubin knows the trade.
Loud preacheth he sobriety,
But as for water, doth eschew it;
Your dog may drink it,--but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
ENVOY
When an evil deed 's to do
Friar Lubin is stout and true;
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Headless Friar of Santo Tomas
In my alma mater, Santo Tomas
We had heard of a mysterious tale
Of a gentle, young Spanish friar who was
A sight that turned anyone very pale.
They said he was a handsome novice
And that time, his superior took fancy.
But the events after that were amiss,
When this friar was lost into mystery.
They say he had been beheaded
By civilians the Spanish called 'Indios'
Though no one believed what was said,
And presumed the circumstances - devious.
Through the years the old building there saw
The appearance of a friar without head,
Frightening students in this age and so
There were masses and prayers for this dead.
It seemed the solution was ineffective-
For soon the appearances became many,
The building had seemed quite conducive
And the ghosts there included the nunnery!
At graduation, we avoided that building
For fear the friar will greet us 'Congrats! '
And had sighed much relief at the leaving
Santo Tomas, and its ghostly 'frats'.
-
Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
February 17,2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Monkshood
Most beautiful of poisons,
border-plant,
wearing your small green cowl,
little friar, little murderer,
aconitine flows
from your roots
to your deep purple flowers,
small deceiver,
centerpiece
for a poisonous
feast.
A few leaves
in the salad,
a few seeds
in the soup,
a thick root
to flavor
the stock-
& it is all over.
Let the lover beware
who buys you
for love philters.
The dose is deceptive.
One pinch leads to passion
but two will surely lead
to death.
Yet you twinkle
little blue bell
at the edge
of the garden,
wearing no warning
about your slim green neck.
Wolfsbane, Friar's cap,
Chariot of Venus-
how many may claim
to be poisonous
head to toe?
That honor-
Friar Death-
belongs to you.
poem by Erica Jong
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The Lady, the Knight, and the Friar
THE LADY.
O cavalier! what dost thou here,
Thy tuneful vigils keeping;
While the northern star looks cold from far
And half the world is sleeping?
THE KNIGHT.
O lady! here, for seven long year,
Have I been nightly sighing,
Without the hope of a single tear
To pity me were I dying.
THE LADY.
Should I take thee to have and to hold,
Who hast nor lands nor money?
Alas! 'tis only in flowers of gold
That married bees flnd honey.
THE KNIGHT.
O lady fair! to my constant prayer
Fate proves at last propitious;
And bags of gold in my hand I bear,
And parchment scrolls delicious.
THE LADY.
My maid the door shall open throw,
For we too long have tarried:
The friar keeps watch in the cellar below,
And we will at once be married.
THE FRIAR.
My children! great is Fortune's power;
And plain this truth appears,
That gold thrives more in a single hour,
Than love in seven long years.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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The Young Friar
When leaves broke out on the wild briar,
And bells for matins rung,
Sorrow came to the old friar
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
And May came to the young.
The old was ripening for the sky,
The young was twenty-four.
The Franklin's daughter passed him by,
Reading a painted missal-book,
Beside the chapel door.
With brown cassock and sandalled feet,
And red Spring wine for blood;
The very next noon he chanced to meet
The Franklin's daughter, in a green May twilight,
Walking through the wood.
Pax vobiscum – to a maid
The crosiered ferns among!
But hers was only the Saxon,
And his the Norman tongue;
And the Latin taught by the old friar
Made music for the young.
And never a better deed was done
By Mother Church below
Than when she made old England one,
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
Hundreds of years ago.
Rich was the painted page they read
Before that sunset died;
Nut-brown hood by golden head,
Murmuring Rosa Mystica,
While nesting thrushes cried.
A Saxon maid with flaxen hair,
And eyes of Sussex grey;
A young monk out of Normandy: –
'May is our Lady's month,' he said,
'And O, my love, my May!'
Then over the fallen missal-book
The missel-thrushes sung
Till – Domus Aurea – rose the moon
And bells for vespers rung.
It was gold and blue for the old friar,
But hawthorn for the young.
For gown of green and brown hood,
Before that curfew tolled,
Had flown for ever through the wood
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
But twenty summers old.
And empty stood his chapel stall,
Empty his thin grey cell,
Empty her seat in the Franklin's hall;
And there were swords that searched for them
Before the matin bell.
And, crowders tell, a sword that night
Wrought them an evil turn,
And that the may was not more white
Than those white bones the robin found
Among the roots of fern.
But others tell of stranger things
Half-heard on Whitsun eves,
Of sweet and ghostly whisperings –
Though hundreds of years ago it was –
Among the ghostly leaves: –
Sero te amavi –
Grey eyes of sun-lit dew! –
Tam antiqua, tam nova –
Augustine heard it, too.
Late have I loved that May, Lady,
So ancient, and so new!
And no man knows where they were flown,
For the wind takes the may:
But white and fresh the may was blown
– Though hundreds of years ago it was –
As this that blooms to-day.
And the leaves break out on the wild briar,
And bells must still be rung;
But sorrow comes to the old friar,
For he remembers a May, a May,
When his old heart was young.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Nun in FRiar Small-Bro's Grave... Yard
The midnight clings to dwarfish kings
While robot drones, adorning thrones,
Kneel, bowing to the Old...Guard.
Arrhythmic clocks and wooden box
Grace FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
The diplohacks, in melting wax,
Are swept along, a thriving throng,
Just dying for a life...guard.
And Nun, alone, has beached their bones
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Beyond the streams, a raven screams
At loser fish that swarm and swish;
Nun gently drips her dreams...jarred.
There are no thanks along the banks
Of FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
While FRiar smiles and prowls the aisles
The hierarch obeys his bark;
His maw is oozing pure...lard.
He tells you who and what to do
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Well, FRiar's pets are in a sweat;
He calls the tunes near burning dunes
And taps his cloven feet...charred.
They roast in rooms within the tombs
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
His myrmidons, they drool and fawn
While chanting verse near FRiar's hearse -
Extolling, wild, the van...guard.
Remote controls promote the trolls
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
With faces straight, in bent debate,
They compromise their empty lies
With any passing re...tard.
Grey zombies groom white flies in bloom
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
With ghouls, unlearned, no stone's unturned,
They burnish blame with Nun's proud name
And leave the midnight sky... scarred.
They raise their hats to copy cats
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
The rumours spread amongst the dead -
Nun marks the place with saving grace,
And phantoms keep their face...marred.
The sinner digs with twisted twigs
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
In tempests strong, Nun rang the gong
But failed to rise in vacant eyes -
He gouged the one-eyed trump...card.
Nun sets her sail, to no avail
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Nun asked him why a bird can't fly.
His mouth, a slut, replied "tut, tut",
With conscience painted white...tarred.
A mushroom mold has taken hold
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
"To get ahead", his mouth, it said
"Lay bare your breast! I'll do the rest,
I'll bless you in the church...yard".
The golden rules are made for fools
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
When day's undone, and night's begun,
Nun stirs a cup and turns face up,
A feeling that she's ill...starred.
'Tis such a crime to waste her prime
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Nun planned to dine with sparkling wine
But sips instead a bitter red
Served with a crystal glass...shard,
Behind the bog, beneath the fog
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Well, minstrels fight beyond the night
And demons wait behind the gate,
While silence chokes the host...bard.
An angel sings with broken wings
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
A web waits, spun neath dying sun.
And caught ensnared, her flight impaired,
Nun's thoughts are how they'd die...hard.
The puppet people storm the stee-
pled FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
And voices wail beyond the pale,
"The old taboo - it echoes true -
Nun's bound to have her way...barred".
The schemes are strange and minds deranged
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Ms.! Cast your nets, but hedge your bets -
There are no odds, where purple gods
And hungry idle ghosts...sparred.
The morning foams amongst the gnomes
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
poem by Terry O'Leary
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Traveling Riverside Blues
(Robert Johnson)
If your man gets personal, want to have your fun
If your man gets personal, want to have your fun
Just come on back to Friar's Point, mama, and barrelhouse all night long
I got womens in Vicksburg, clean on into Tennessee
I got womens in Vicksburg, clean on into Tennessee
But my Friar's Point rider, now, hops all over me
I ain't gon' to state no color, but her front teeth is crowned with gold
I ain't gon' to state no color, but her front teeth is crowned with gold
She got a mortgage on my body, now, lien on my soul
Lord, I'm goin' to Rosedale, gon' take my rider by my side
Lord, I'm goin' to Rosedale, gon' take my rider by my side
We can still barrelhouse, baby, 'cause it's on the river side
Now you can squeeze my lemon till the juice run down my...
[Spoken:] till the juice run down my leg, baby, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout
You can squeeze my lemon till the juice run down my leg
(that's what I'm talkin' about now)
But I'm goin' back to Friar's Point, if I be rockin' to my head
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Barefooted Boys
I.
By the sword of St. Michael
The old dragon through;
By David his sling
And the giant he slew;
Let us write us a rhyme,
As a record to tell
How the South on a time
Stormed the ramparts of Hell
With her barefooted boys!
II.
Had the South in her border
A hero to spare,
Or a heart at her altar,
Lo! its life's blood was there!
And the black battle-grime
Might never disguise
The smile of the South
On the lips and the eyes
Of her barefooted boys!
III.
There's a grandeur in fight,
And a terror the while,
But none like the light
Of that terrible smile -
The smile of the South,
When the storm-cloud unrolls
The lightening that loosens
The wrath in the souls
Of her barefooted boys!
IV.
It withered the foe
Like the red light that runs
Through the dead forest leaves,
And he fled from his guns!
Grew the smile to a laugh,
Rose the laugh to a yell.
As the iron-clad hoofs
Clattered back into Hell
From our barefooted boys!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Trust not your gossip to a priest who has been a friar.
Will O' The Wisp
Follow me, follow me,
Over brake and under tree,
Thro' the bosky tanglery,
Brushwood and bramble!
Follow me, follow me,
Laugh and leap and scramble!
Follow, follow,
Hill and hollow,
Fosse and burrow,
Fen and furrow,
Down into the bulrush beds,
'Midst the reeds and osier heads,
In the rushy soaking damps,
Where the vapours pitch their camps,
Follow me, follow me,
For a midnight ramble!
O! what a mighty fog,
What a merry night O ho!
Follow, follow, nigher, nigher -
Over bank, and pond, and briar,
Down into the croaking ditches,
Rotten log,
Spotted frog,
Beetle bright
With crawling light,
What a joy O ho!
Deep into the purple bog -
What a joy O ho!
Where like hosts of puckered witches
All the shivering agues sit
Warming hands and chafing feet,
By the blue marsh-hovering oils:
O the fools for all their moans!
Not a forest mad with fire
Could still their teeth, or warm their bones,
Or loose them from their chilly coils.
What a clatter,
How they chatter!
Shrink and huddle,
All a muddle!
What a joy O ho!
Down we go, down we go,
What a joy O ho!
Soon shall I be down below,
Plunging with a grey fat friar,
Hither, thither, to and fro,
Breathing mists and whisking lamps,
Plashing in the shiny swamps;
While my cousin Lantern Jack,
With cook ears and cunning eyes,
Turns him round upon his back,
Daubs him oozy green and black,
Sits upon his rolling size,
Where he lies, where he lies,
Groaning full of sack -
Staring with his great round eyes!
What a joy O ho!
Sits upon him in the swamps
Breathing mists and whisking lamps!
What a joy O ho!
Such a lad is Lantern Jack,
When he rides the black nightmare
Through the fens, and puts a glare
In the friar's track.
Such a frolic lad, good lack!
To turn a friar on his back,
Trip him, clip him, whip him, nip him.
Lay him sprawling, smack!
Such a lad is Lantern Jack!
Such a tricksy lad, good lack!
What a joy O ho!
Follow me, follow me,
Where he sits, and you shall see!
poem by George Meredith
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Neither a good friar for friend, nor a bad one for enemy.
God deliver us from a gentleman by day and a friar by night.
Barefooted
I am walking barefooted and naked because,
I have my mind on you;
I am walking barefooted and naked because,
I have my love for you;
But Moab will wail fro Moab.
You are the one that i love and,
Naked and barefooted i do go about daily for you;
But gladness and joy will be taken away very soon from Moab.
Like a carved ivory, you are as fair as the moon;
Like the highlights of the mountains,
You are easily reached up in love than others;
So we need no war around us.
Life is as bright as the sun on the sweet bed of spices,
And true love is like the fragrance of Lebanon;
But like a carved ivory on your love,
This love is sweeter than wine!
A carved ivory,
Of our legs of love and the peace that it brings;
And like the harp of ten strings,
I am like the native green tree of love to your heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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