The Alter Boy

Now McEvoy was altar-boy
  As 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 trust
  Who had the bit o' learnin'
To serve the priest; and here at least
  He never proved defaulter;
So, wet or dry, you could rely
  To find him on the Altar.

The acolyte in surplice white
  Some admiration rouses:
But McEvoy was altar-boy
  In "Sund'y coat-'n-trouses."
And out he'd steer, the eye severe
  The 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 eyes
  He'd move about the Altar.

A master-stroke of other folk
  Might start the opposition,
And some, mebbe, in jealousy
  Bedoubt their erudition;
But McEvoy was altar-boy
  And, spite of all their chattin',
It "put the stuns" on lesser ones
  To hear him run the Latin.
And faith, he knew the business through,
  The rubrics and the psalter;
You never met his "aikals" yet
  When servin' on the Altar.

The priest, indeed, might take the lead
  By right of Holy Orders,
But McEvoy was altar-boy,
  And just upon the borders.
So sermons dry he'd signify
  With puckered brows behoovin',
An', if you please, at homilies
  He'd nod the head approvin';
And all the while a cute old smile
  Picked out the chief defaulter;
Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eye
  Would "vet" you from the Altar.