A brace of sinners, for no good,
Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood,
And in a curl'd white wig look'd wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel:
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:
A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls deep sunk in crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,
That popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Light as a bullet from a gun;
The other limp'd as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin, soon—peccavi cried—
Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever;
When home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit with saints above to live for ever.
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about halfway—
Hobbling with outstretch'd hands and bending knees,
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now!" the light-toed whitewash'd pilgrim broke,
"You lazy lubber!"
"You see it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke;
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as blubber.
"But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain—
What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes—
Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,
Now groaning, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if nought had happen'd, burn ye?"
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,
That just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas!"