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At last it was agreed to clear up
The situation by electing
A board: to reckon each arrear up,
And then a pilot sure selecting
The cranky craft of Church to steer up
The straits it foundered in;—reflecting,
They chose Monsignor Card’nal Foca,
Notorious for his luck at poker,
With full authority to transact
The operations he deemed needful.
Fail—and he would be disfrocked and sacked,
With other penalties as dreadful:
Succeed—the means would not be ransacked
By eyes too critical and heedful:
Such was the compact subter velum.
Væ vietis! vincitori cælum.
I cannot here pursue this prelate
Through all the tortuous ways his gambles
Constrained the obol through to swell it;
His borsine victories, losses, scrambles;
How by express shot like a pellet
To Paris:—now its Bourse he rambles;
Now sea-sick braves it o’er the Channel,
His sea-green face wrapped up in flannel;
How from each Bourse he thrusts his nose in
He draws it out a palm the longer,
Because he sells when markets closing
Are weak, and buys when they are stronger:
How slily smiles, a claw reposing
On parrot beak each Jewish sponger
When Monsignore Poker-Foca
Is sold up by his private broker.
