Classic Poem

That same night, the sorry thief
Who deemed himself of sinners chief, —
Who troth had given unto his heart
That on an honest way he'd start, —
With his last farthing bought him wine
And off a mouldy crust did dine.
But alack! When he laid him down to rest,
His empty belly got the best
Of his prentice soul, and up rose he
And set again to his roguery.
Two loaves and a fat fowl roasted whole,
And a cask of Syrian wine he stole,
And when he laid him down once more
Full quickly he began to snore.
But he never dreamed of the Crosses three
That would stand one day on Calvary.