While The Billy BoilsSearchNow McEvoy was altar-boyAs long as I remember;He was, bedad, a crabbéd lad,And sixty come December.Faith, no one dared to “interfere”In things the which concernin’’Twas right and just to him to trustWho had the bit o’ learnin’To serve the priest; and here at leastHe never proved defaulter;So, wet or dry, you could relyTo find him on the Altar.
The acolyte in surplice whiteSome admiration rouses:But McEvoy was altar-boyIn “Sund’y coat-’n-trouses.”And out he’d steer, the eye severeThe depths behind him plumbin”In dread, I wot (he once was “cot”),The priest might, not be comin’:Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,No more he’d fail or falter,But set likewise with hands and eyesHe’d move about the Altar.
A master-stroke of other folkMight start the opposition,And some, mebbe, in jealousyBedoubt their erudition;But McEvoy was altar-boyAnd, spite of all their chattin’,It “put the stuns” on lesser onesTo hear him run the Latin.And faith, he knew the business through,The rubrics and the psalter;You never met his “aikals” yetWhen servin’ on the Altar.
The priest, indeed, might take the leadBy right of Holy Orders,But McEvoy was altar-boy,And just upon the borders.So sermons dry he’d signifyWith puckered brows behoovin’,An’, if you please, at homiliesHe’d nod the head approvin’;And all the while a cute old smilePicked out the chief defaulter;Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eyeWould “vet” you from the Altar.