When to any saint I pray,
It shall be to Saint Peray.
He alone, of all the brood,
Ever did me any good:
Many I have tried that are
Humbugs in the calendar.

On the Atlantic, faint and sick,
Once I prayed Saint Dominick:
He was holy, sure, and wise; —
Was 't not he that did devise
Auto da Fes and rosaries? —
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.

Next, in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where
— All the ancient kings repose;
But, how I was swindled there
— At the " Golden Fleece, " — he knows!

In my wanderings, vague and various,
— Reaching Naples — as I lay
— Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius.
But I was a fool to try him;

Naught I said could liquefy him;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long
In that pest-house, with obscene
Jews and Greeks and things unclean —
What need had I of quarantine?

In Sicily at least a score, —
In Spain about as many more, —
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,
Did I pray to — sans reply;
Devil take the tribe! — said I.

Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came:
Sad and full of homesick fancies,
I addressed me to Saint Francis:
But the beggar never did
Anything as he was bid,
Never gave me aught — but fleas, —
Plenty had I at Assise.

But in Provence, near Vaucluse,
— Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint
Gifted with a wondrous juice,
— Potent for the worst complaint.

'Twas at Avignon that first —
In the witching time of thirst —
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.

Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre passed my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
For his gentle spirit glided
— With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did
— Poet never drew from wine.
Rest he gave me and refection, —
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, —
Softened images of sorrow,
Bright forebodings for the morrow, —
Charity for what is past, —
Faith in something good at last.

Now, why should any almanack
The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a saint so sage and merry?
The Pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.
But, since no day hath been appointed,
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed,
Let us not wait — we'll do him right;
Send round your bottles, Hal — and set your night.