ST. ALOYS THE GREAT is both mouldy and grim,

Not knowing the road there, you’ll long have to search

To find your way into this old city church;

Yet on fine Sunday mornings I frequently stray

There to see a new saint, whom I’ve christened St. May.

Of saints I’ve seen plenty in churches before—

In Florence or Venice they’re there by the score;

Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—

By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret:

They none can compare, though they’re well in their way,

She’s young for a saint, for she’s scarcely eighteen,

And ne’er could wear peas in those dainty bottines;

Her locks are not shaven, and ’twould be a sin

To wear a hair-shirt next that delicate skin;

Save diagonal stripes on a dress of light gray,

Stripes ne’er have been borne by bewitching St. May.

Then she’s almost too plump and too round for a saint,

With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;

She has no mediÆval nor mortified mien,

No wimple of yellow, nor background of green,

A nimbus of hair throws its sunshiny ray

Of glory around the fair face of St. May.

What surquayne or partlet could look better than

My saint’s curly jacket of black Astracan?

What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill—

Or alb than her petticoat edged with a frill?

So sober, yet smiling—so grave, yet so gay,

Oh, where is a saint like my charming St. May?