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

WHAT pity 'tis, in this our goodly land,
That 'mongst the apostolic band,
So ill divided are the loaves and fishes!
Archbishops, bishops, deans, and deacons,
With ruddy faces blazing just like beacons,
Shall daily cram upon a dozen dishes;
Whilst half th' inferior cassocks think it well
Of beef and pudding ev'n to get a smell.

A plodding hostler willing to be master,
And rise in this good world a little faster,
Left broom and manger at the Old Blue Boar;
Meaning by pars'ning to support a table,
Lo, of divines he kept a liv'ry stable—
A pretty stud indeed—about a score.

Of diff'rent colours were his gospel hacks—
Some few were whites, indeed—but many blacks;
That is, some tolerable—many sad:
And verily, to give the devil his due,
The man did decency pursue,
Which shows he was not quite so bad.

For, lo! to dying persons of nobility,
He sent his parsons of gentility,
To give the necessary pray'r—
To parting people of a mean condition,
Wanting a soul physician,
He suited them with blackguards to a hair.

To such as were of mild disorders dying,
Viz. of the doctor, gouts, or stones, or gravels,
He sent good priests—of manners edifying—
To comfort sinners on their travels:

But to low people in infectious fever,
Or any other dangerous one in vogue,
Such was his honesty, the man for ever
Most scrupulously sent a rogue.

It happen'd on a day when fate was raging,
Crimp-like, for other regions troops engaging,
When clergymen were busy all as bees;
A poor old dying woman sent
To this same parson-monger compliment,
Begging a clergyman her soul to ease.

Unluckily but one was in the stall,
And he the very best of all!—
What shou'd be done?
Necessitas non habet legs—
So to the priest he goes and begs
That he would visit the old crone.

‘Sir,’ quoth the parson, ‘I agreed
To go to gentlefolks in time of need,
But not to every poor old lousy soul.’—
‘True,’ cry'd the patron; ‘to be sure 'tis true;
But, parson, do oblige me—prithee do—
Let's put her decently into the hole:

‘All my black tribe, you know, are now abroad—
I'd do it, if I could, myself, by G*d!
Then what a dickens can I do or say?—
Go, mumble, man, about a pray'r and half;
Tell the old b**ch her soul is safe;
Then take your fee and come away!!!’