As the silvery chime of the matin bell;

And without any jogging he fell to his flogging,

And larruped himself in his lonely cell.

 But the leather had lost its power to sting; To pangs of the flesh he was now immune; His rough hair shirt no longer hurt, Nor the pebbles he wore in his wooden shoon.

But the leather had lost its power to sting;

To pangs of the flesh he was now immune;

His rough hair shirt no longer hurt,

Nor the pebbles he wore in his wooden shoon.

 When conscience was troubled he cheerfully doubled His matinal dose of discipline;— A deuce of a scourging, sufficient for purging The Devil himself of original sin.

When conscience was troubled he cheerfully doubled

His matinal dose of discipline;—

A deuce of a scourging, sufficient for purging

The Devil himself of original sin.

 Whacketty-whack on breast and back, Whacketty-whack from morn to noon; Whacketty-whacketty-whacketty-whack!— Till the abbey rang with the dismal tune.

Whacketty-whack on breast and back,

Whacketty-whack from morn to noon;

Whacketty-whacketty-whacketty-whack!—

Till the abbey rang with the dismal tune.

 Deacon and prior, lay-brother and friar Exclaimed at these whoppings spectacular; And even the Abbot remarked that the habit Of scourging oneself might be carried too far.

Deacon and prior, lay-brother and friar

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