University of Virginia Library

The Pazons

What's the gud of these Pazons? They're the most despard rubbage go'n',
Reg'lar humbugs they are. Show me a Pazon, show me a drone!
Livin' on the fat of the land, livin' on the people's money
The same's the drones is livin' on the beeses honey.
Aw bless ye! the use of them? not the smallest taste in the world, no!
Grindin' down the honest workin' man, just so;
Suckin' the blood of the poor and needy,
And as greedy's greedy.
See the tithes, see the fees, see the glebes and all;
What's the call
For the lek? and their wives go'n' a takin' for ladies, and their childhar go'n' sendin' to College
Like the fuss of the land. Aw, it bates all knowledge
The uprisement of the lek! And fingerin' with their piannas,
Them that shud be singin' their hosannahs
To the King of glory constant. Clap them in the pulfit theer,
What can they do! Aw, come down the steer! come down the steer,
And don't be disgracin' yourself that way! That's what I've been thinkin' many a time—
And let a praecher take his turn, a local, aye, just try'm!
Aw, give your people a chance to get salvation.
“Blow ye the trumpet in Zion!” That's the style, and the prespiration
Pourin' out all over his body! See the wrestlin',
And the poor Pazon with his collec' and his pestlin'
And his gosp'lin'. Gospel! Let it sound abroad,
The rael gospel of God!
Aw then the happy I am!
Give us the Lamb! give us the Lamb!
But he can't, I tell ye, he can't—
What's that young man sayin' theer—rant?
Rant indeed, is that what he's learnin'
At Oxfoot College, to revile the spirit that's burnin'
In the hearts of the faithful? Aye, and let it burn, let it blaze!
But here's the Pazon, if ye plaze,
Cocked up with his little twinkle of a farlin' rush,
And 'll hauk and blush,
And his snips and his snaps
And his scrips and his scraps,
And endin' up with the Lord's Prayer quite sudden
Lek the ould woman's sauce to give a notion of a puddin',. . .
Aye, puddin', and drabbin' with their swishups and dishups
Of the stale ould broth of the law! If all the hands of all the bishops
Was goin' crookin' over his head, he wudn' be a praecher,
Not him, nor a taecher.
You can't be married without a Pazon? Can't I though?
Can't I, Masther Crow?
Give me the chance: I'm a married man with a fam'ly comin',
But if it plazed the Lord to take Mrs. Creer, d'ye think there's a woman
'd refuse to go with me before the High Bailiff down
At Castletown,
And ger' a slick of matrimony put upon us?
Honest?
Yes, honest thallure: but holy, “holy matrimony,” they're say'n'—
Holy your grandmother!—At laste, I mane,
And astin' your pardon, Mrs. Clague!
But the idikkilis people is about the lek o' yandhar—Aisy with your leg,
Masthar Callow; thank ye! that'll do—
Yis, Mrs. Clague, and crizzenin's and funarls too—
Shuperstition, just shuperstition, the whole kit,
Most horrid, just popery, clane popery, that's it—
Aye, popery and schamin' and a lie and a delusion and snares
To get money out of the people, which is the Lord's and not theirs!
Money, money every turn,
Money, money—pay or burn!
And where does it come from? I said it before, and I say it again,
Out of the sweat of the workin' man,
Aw these priests! these priests! these priests—
Down with them, I say. The brute beasts
Has more sense till us, that's willin' to pay blackmail
To a set of rascals, to a pack of——Good evenin', Pazon Gale!
Good evenin', sir, good evenin'! Step up, sir! Make room,
Make room for our respected Vicar—And may I persume
To ax how is Mrs. Gale, sir, and the family?
Does this weather agree—
Rather damp, I dessay! And the Governor's got knighted?
I'm delighted to see you, sir, delighted, delighted!