  When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good. When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there: “If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array. “Almighty God will surely cry, ‘St. Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands, “‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?’ “St. Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), ‘I seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name...?’ “St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: ‘I know him for the best of men That ever walloped barley brew. “‘And though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, I hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’ “Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d’Aran and Perigord.” This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died. |
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