A Roman Miracle
A pretty maid, a Protestant, was to a Catholic wed;
To love all Bible truths and tales, quite early she’s been bred.
It sorely grieved her husband’s heart that she would not comply,
And join the Mother Church of Rome and heretics deny.
So day by day he flattered her, but still she saw no good
Would ever come from bowing down to idols made of wood.
The Mass, the host, the miracles, were made but to deceive;
And transubstantiation, too, she’d never dare believe.
He went to see his clergyman and told him his sad tale.
“My wife is an unbeliever, sir; you can perhaps prevail.
For all your Romish miracles my wife has strong aversion,
To really work a miracle may lead to her conversion.”
The priest went with the gentleman–he thought to gain a prize.
He said, ” I will convert her, sir, and open both her eyes.”
So when they came into the house, the husband loudly cried,
“This priest has come to dine with us!” “He’s welcome,” she replied.
And when, at last, the meal was o’er, the priest at once began
To teach his hostess all about the sinful state of man;
The greatness of our Savior’s love, which Christians can’t deny,
To give Himself a sacrifice and for our sins to die.
“I will return tomorrow, las, prepare some bread and wine;
The sacramental miracle will stop your soul’s decline.”
“I’ll bake the breaed,” the lady said, “You may,” he did reply,
“And when you’ve seen this maracle, convinced you’ll be, say I.”
The priest did come accordingly, the bread and wine did bless,
The lady asked, “Sir, is it changed?” The priest answered, “Yes.
It’s changed from common bread and wine to truly flesh and blood;
Begorra, lass, this power of mine has changed it into God!
So having blessed the bread and wine, to eat they did prepare.
The lady said unto the priest, “I want you to take care,
For half an ounce of arsenic was mixed right in the batter,
But since you have its nature changed, it cannot really matter.”
The priest was struck real dumb–he looked as pale as death.
The bread and wine fell from his hands and he did gasp for breath.
“Bring me my horse!” the priest cried, “This is a cursed home!”
The lady replied, “Begone; tis you who shares the curse of Rome.”
The husband, too, he sat surprised, and not a word did say.
At length he spoke, “My dear,” said he, “the priest has run away;
To gulp such mummery and tripe, I’m not for sure, quite able;
I’ll go with you and we’ll renounce this Roman Catholic fable.”