While The Billy BoilsSearchFaith, ’tis great to see him steppin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’Limpid golden notes appealin’ on the Sabbath softened air—Bounteous benediction breathin’ o’er the faithful slowly stringin’Up the road to old St. Michael’s, on the blessed day of prayer;You might seek the boundin’ gait of him in any youth or maiden,Spite of six and sixty winters; and in vain would be the search.Steppin’ out with fine importance, like a gen’ral out paradin’,In his Sunday regimentals, he—the Pillar of the Church.
There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’—Silken swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gem, and jew’l there be;There be homely ones in “fine clothes” in the movin’ rainbow pressin’With the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery;There be strength and fashion flauntin’, this their hour above their neighbours,Little faded, beaded bonnets, bobbin’ slowly on their way;There be achin’ shoulders bendin’ ’neath the weight of cares and labours,Hopplin’ on with crutch supported, where they hurried in their day.
But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’,Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful as he paces to the fore;Somethin’ swellin’ up responsive to the flatt’ry of the starin’Of the little knots discussin’ parish gossip round the door.What if through the workin’ week-day, with no mark of fame adornin’,He be just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,Whose opinions matter nothing; here he is, the blessed mornin’In his Sunday regimentals—and the Pillar of the Church.
Yes, the Pillar of the Church is he, and rash they be who doubt him—Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and pace them to the rear,For it’s never parish priest there’s been could carry on without him;And we’ve had a parish priest, we have, “it’s goin’ on fifty year.”Don’t we see him time and time again as officer commandin’,Sup’rintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much?Don’t we see with the gentlemen—the chest of him expandin’,Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?
Ain’t he present all occasions, when there’s grave deliberatin’On important parish matters in the school or presbyt’ry,With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’—He the sole survivin’ member of the first Church “Komitee?”And maintainin’ which distinction don’t he take the opposition?And a heap of argufying cannot shift him from his perch;Do these young lads think they’ll run things, aye, and ruin them in addition?Not so long as there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.
Sure, the Pillar of the Church, man; times he’s saved the situation“With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell;’Twas he always did the cute thing; ’twas he made the “suggestation,”’Twas he “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well.He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’,Nor afraid to be “upstandin’ his opinions for to state,”E’en the priest he’s flabbergasted. An’ he set the Bishop thinkin’—“Tut, he did, man;” “an’ he showed him;” “Faith, he ups and tells him straight.”
Ach, ’twould do you good to hear him with an audience round him gawkin’,Tell of “Openin’s” here, and “Big-Days” puttin’ modern feats to scorn;“An’ the banquets;” “an’ the speechin’;” “an’ the—Arrah, don’t be talkin’.”“Sure, the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born;”And the priests he knew be dozens; and the strugglin’ and the strivin’;And the failure starin’ at ’em had he left them in the lurch;Times and times he travelled with ’em; an’ “tremenjus” was the drivin’—Pshaw! a hundred miles was “larkin’” to the Pillar of the Church.
Aye, the Pillar of the Church he’s been, and still at Mass or meetin’There’s the crabbed old bald-head of him a-shinin’ to the view;And at answ’rin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’With its thunder shames the mean attempts of others in the pew.And the pois’nous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’,An’ the twistin’, an’ the glarin’, an’ then list’nin’ like a hareWhile his Rev’rence reads the notices; but plottin’ through the preachin’For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog that’s ramblin’ everywhere.
Times, in truth, he’s raised their dander, every member “up agin” him,And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope;”But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for the “venyum” isn’t in him,Happy just to be a leader where the timid spirits grope.Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter,Him alone the ruthless Wrecker ne’er has chanced on in the search;Faith, we’d miss him were he taken, like we’d miss the holy water,In his Sunday regimentals, when the Pillar of the Church.