Analysis of Jackaw of Rheims, The



The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air,
He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
'We two are the greatest folks here to-day!'
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, 'The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!'

The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little Singing-boys--dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in 'permanent ink.'
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the Monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out.
The Friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,--
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
--They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:--
But, no!--no such thing;--
They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbott declared that, 'when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!'

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

The day was gone,
The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;--
His pinions droop'd--he could hardly stand,--
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, 'THAT'S HIM!--
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!'
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the Monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
'Pray, be so good as to walk this way!'
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back o


Scheme AABXCCCDDEE FFFAAGGXXAAHHIIJJXKF LLXEMMMBXANNDDOOPPQQRRXXESSSTT FFFFTTTMMMUUGGVVTTWW XXYYZZRRTTTTT1 2 2 1 DDDKKFJJJ3 3 4 4 4 TTFKKJJBPX
Poetic Form
Metre 011101001 1001001001 1001010010 100101001 10110111001 01010100 0110111101 1011 10101 110111101 10100111011 001 10101 110111001 101 101001 10101 01001 1010101 100111011 1101 11101 1010111001 0011100111 011001 1111 1010111111 1110101111 00111 11111 10101101101 011100111 010011101 01101011101 011100111 10101 111 101111 01101101010 010111011 1101101101 10110111011 00110110111 111011011 101001001101 001101101111 1011001101 11011 0101 101110111 001001101001 0111001101 1111011101 111011 11010 01101101101 01011 101111 101101111001 1111011011 110111101 101001 001101 011111101 101111011011 010110 010010 010010010010 01001 111101 01111001101 11011 001001 11101011101 11101001101 11101 101001 11111 11101 00100111111 110110110011 0100110101 11111011011 010100101 11001111 1111111101 101111101111 11101011001 111101001001 111010111010 111010010010 111010010010 111010010010 111010111010 1011101001 1111 111001 1111001 0111 0111 0100101111 1011 1101 110011011 1101 1110 11011111011 11111101 11111101111 1111 11011 1111011111 10111111001 101111111001 01101 10111 1011101101 0111111111 111111111 10010 11101 1111011
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 4,244
Words 827
Sentences 29
Stanzas 6
Stanza Lengths 11, 20, 30, 20, 17, 24
Lines Amount 122
Letters per line (avg) 27
Words per line (avg) 7
Letters per stanza (avg) 554
Words per stanza (avg) 135
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 14, 2023

4:16 min read
65

Richard Harris Barham

Richard Harris Barham was an English cleric of the Church of England, novelist, and humorous poet. more…

All Richard Harris Barham poems | Richard Harris Barham Books

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