The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Brighten'd the black horizon of his parish;
Gave to the Prince of Darkness such hard blows,
That Satan was afraid to show his nose
(Except in Hell) before this priest so warrish!
To teach folks how to shun the paths of evil,
And prove a match for Mr. Devil,
Was constantly this pious man's endeavour,
And, as I've said before, the man was clever.

Red-hot was all his zeal—and Fame declares,
He gallop'd like a hunter o'er his pray'rs;

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For ever lifting to the clouds his forehead—
Petitions on petitions he let fly,
Which nothing but Barbarians could deny—
In short, the saints were to compliance worried.

With shoulders, arms, and hands, this priest devout,
So well his evolutions did perform;
His pray'rs, those holy small-shot, flew about
So thick!—it seem'd like taking Heav'n by storm!

Without one atom of reflection,
No candidate at an election
Did ever labour more, and fume, and sweat,
To make a fellow change his coat,
And bless him with the casting vote,
Than this dear man to get in Heav'n a seat
For souls of children, women, and of men:
No matter which the species—cock or hen!

Thus did he not, like that vile Jesuit, think,
Who makes us all with horror shrink,
A knave high meriting Hell's hottest coals;
Who wrote a dreadful book to prove
That women, charming women, form'd for love,
Have got no souls!

Monster! to think that woman had no soul!
Ha! hast thou not a soul, thou peerless maid,
Who bidst my rural hours with rapture roll?
Whose beauties charm the shepherds and the shade!

Yes, Cynthia, and for souls like thine,
Fate into being drew yon starry sphere;
Then kindly sent thy form divine,
To show what wondrous bliss inhabits there!

In short, no dray-horse ever work'd so hard,
From vaults to drag up hogshead, tun or pipe,
As this good priest, to drag, for small reward,
The souls of sinners from the Devil's gripe.

Pleas'd were the highest angels to express
Their wonder at his fine address;

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And pow'r against the fiend who makes such strife;
Nay, e'en St. Peter said, to whom are giv'n
The keys for letting people into Heav'n,
He never got more halfpence in his life.

'Twas added that my namesake did declare
(Peter, the porter of Heav'n gate, so trusty),
That till this priest appear'd, souls were so rare
His bunch of keys was absolutely rusty!

Did gentlemen of fortune die,
And leave the church a good round sum;
Lo! in the twinkling of an eye,
The parson frank'd their souls to kingdom-come!

A letter to the porter, or a word,
Insur'd admittance to the Lord.

Nor stopp'd those souls an instant on the road
To take a roast before they enter'd in:
For had they got the plague, 'twas said that God
Had let them enter without quarantine.

Well then! this parson was so much admir'd,
So sought, so courted, so desir'd,
Thousands with putrid souls, like putrid meat,
Came for his holy pickle, to be sweet:

Just as we see old hags with jaws of carrion,
Enter the shop of Mr. Warren;
Who disappoints that highwayman call'd Time
(Noted for robbing ladies of their prime),
By giving sixty-five's pale, wither'd mien,
The blooming roses of sixteen.

Such vast impressions did his sermons make,
He always kept his flock awake—
In summer too,—hear, parsons, this strange news,
Ye who so often preach to nodding pews!

A neighb'ring town, into whose people's souls
Sin, like a rat, had eat large holes,

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Begg'd him to be their tinker—their hole-stopper—
For, gentle reader, sin of such a sort is,
It souls corrodeth just as aqua fortis
Corrodeth iron, brass, or copper.

They told him they would give him better pay,
If he'd agree to change his quarters;
Protesting, when his soul should leave its clay,
To rank his bones with those of saints and martyrs.

This was a handsome bribe all papists know!
But stop—his parish would not let him go—
Then surly did the other parish look,
And swore to have the man by hook or crook.

So seiz'd him, like a graceless throng—
The priest's parishioners, who lov'd him well,
Rather than to another church belong,
Swore they would sooner see him lodg'd in Hell—

So violent was their objection!
So very strong, too, their affection!

The ladies, too, united in the strife;
Protesting that they ‘lov'd him as their life,’
So sweetly he would look when down to pray'r!
So happy in a sermon choice;
And then he had of nightingales the voice—
And holy water gave with such an air!

Lord! lose so fine a man!—so great a treasure!
Yielding such quantities of heav'nly pleasure!

Forgiving sins so free, too, at confession,
However carnal the transgression,
In such a charming, love-condemning strain!
He really seem'd to say, “Go sin again;
Hell shall not throw, my angels, on your souls
So sweet, a single shovelful of coals.”

Now in the fire was all the fat:
Just as two bull-dogs pull a cat,
Both parishes with furious zeal contended—

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So heartily the holy man was hugg'd,
So much from place to place his limbs were lugg'd,
That very fatally the battle ended!
In short, by hugging, lugging, and kind squeezes,
The man of God was pull'd in fifty pieces!

This work perform'd, the bones were fought for stoutly;
And so the fray continued most devoutly—
Lo with an arm away one rascal fled;
This with a leg, and that the head—
Off with the foot another goes—
Another seizes him and gets the toes.

Nay, some, a relic so intent to crib,
Fought just like mastiffs for a rib;
Nay more (for truth, to tell the whole, obliges),
A dozen battled for his os coccygis !

Heav'n, that sees all things, saw the dire dispute,
In which each parish acted like a brute;
Then bade the dead man as a saint be sought
Still, to reward him more, his bones enriches
With pow'r o'er evils, rheumatisms, and itches,
However dreadful, and wherever caught:
Thus, by the grace of Him who governs thunder,
His very toe nail could perform a wonder.

The tip of the rump.