The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| III, IV. |
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| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
65
THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.
PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE,
“COME, CLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES.”
“We want more Churches and more Clergymen.”
Bishop of London's late Charge.
“Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent.”
Claudian in Eutrop.
Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do ye ask us how many we crave?
For, richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do ye ask us how many we crave?
Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
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To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.
Count the cormorants hovering about
,
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest's in play,
And, not minding the farmer's distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Flock round when the harvest's in play,
And, not minding the farmer's distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven
,
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you've given,
We still shall be craving for more.
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you've given,
We still shall be craving for more.
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Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.
Must leave us in peace to augment
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.
Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, &c.
Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks, &c.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |