Now McEvoy was altar-boy 
As long as I remember; 
He was, bedad, a crabbed lad, 
And sixty come December. 
Faith, no one dared to "interfare" 
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 fight 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 crabbed eye 
Would "vet" you from the Altar. 


John O'Brien