Page:The Green Bag (1889–1914), Volume 05.pdf/293

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THE BISHOP OF GRETNA GREEN. BY WILBUR LARREMORE.

r I ^HE bishop was genial and burly, His red locks were matted and curly, Eyes twinkled from bushiest eaves. A spy-glass well battered lay handy, With hammer and nails littered up, All flanked by a bottle of brandy, With never a sign of a cup. No matter what task was in order, At herald of love's refugees When dust-clouds arose on the border, The bishop would tear from his knees The apron, and forth from the smithy In tattered canonicals strode, Beginning a marriage-rite pithy With bride and groom still on the road. And yet, if the time was not pressing, The bishop more leisurely wrought, And gave, with episcopal blessing, A last benediction that brought A grin to each by-standing varlet, Unchecked by the bishop's smug leer. The bride's face would mantle with scarlet, The bridegroom not seeming to hear. And when the pursuers with clamor Drew up at the vestry's front door, The bishop stood grasping his hammer With muscles to wield it like Thor, And a look that it mattered but little If the anvil he smote or a skull, Since the latter was always more brittle And oftentimes fully as dull.
 * • LJnsurpliced and guiltless of sleeves;