University of Virginia Library

ECLOGUE V. THE FIELD PREACHER.

Damon.
What ho! my Peter, tell me, I beseech,
Your eager haste to town?

Peter.
My haste! to preach:—
To lead my flock from error's thorny way,
My silly, wandering sheep who idly stray,
In spite of all I do, and all I say!
No arguments of mine can rouse their fears,
I preach to iron hearts, and leathern ears.

Da.
I've often wonder'd that thy flock had patience,
To listen to such tedious, dull orations;
And much, alas! their folly did I grieve,
To think the stupid blockheads should believe:
For, gentle Peter, I must say in sooth,
Thou art not over nice about the truth;
And not one swain who knows thee, will deny,
That, Peter, thou canst preach,—and thou canst lie.

Pet.
Methinks, thou'rt strangely pert, good Master Damon,
To shew such rudeness to a pious Layman!
To vent thy bitter spleen, and impious wrath,
Against the sober brethren of our cloth;
Who, since the plotting Sidmouth lost his bill,
(As much I hope such graceless Nobles will,)
The Gospel are at liberty to dish up,
And shake their heads at Vicar, Dean, and Bishop.

Da.
Unhappy sheep, ah! who shall set them free
From such a shepherd, such a guide as thee?
Didst thou not, cunning Varlet! when of late
Thy hearers put their money in the plate,
With sacrilegious hands the whole secure,
And of their lawful right defraud the poor?

Pet.
An honest man may freely take his own;
The cash was mine, by preaching fairly won:
Go, ask my clerk; if he the fact deny,
This tongue shall give the perjur'd rogue the lie.

Da.
Good words, old rev'rend sinner! for I trow
Thy clerk's a sorry knave,—and so art thou.

Pet.
Egad! a libel, or the deuce is in't!

Da.
No libel, by my Fay! unless in print.

Pet.
Let Collyer boast his soft bewitching note,
And crack-ton'd Wilks, the wonders of his throat;
My breast nor rival fears, nor envy knows,
I speak the truth,—and speak it through my nose.

Da.
Boast not thy fancied skill, thy false renown,
Thou hypocrite! thou scarecrow of the town!
Dunce at the best! in Chapels scarce allow'd
To tease an empty, groaning, yawning crowd.

Pet.
Ah! little heed I what my Damon saith,
He is not yet converted to the faith.
Still, peradventure, though he idly mock
The priest, the guide, the shepherd of the flock,
A lambkin, he may turn his wand'ring feet;
And with a contrite heart repentance bleat.

Da.
You've touched me, Peter! yes you have, I fear,
I feel so strange, so comical, and queer;
My pulse beats high, my blood and bowels yearn,
I melt with love, with ecstacy I burn!
Indulge me, Peter, in this pious qualm,
And quicken my conversion with a psalm.

Pet.
Such soft sensations do the saints inherit,
Who feel the inward workings of the spirit;
O! would our Sisters Tabitha and Ruth,
With all the crop-ear'd brethren of the truth,
Assembled hither for their soul's diversion,
Could see thy sudden, wonderful conversion.

Da.
O, name not Tabby! debonnaire and sleek,
I tremble at the roses in her cheek!
And Ruth is buxom, though devout and shy,
A righteous heart, but yet a wicked eye!

Pet.
Now hear me, brother Damon; hear, I pr'ythee,
My late conversion—and the Lord be wi' thee!
Some forty years ago, or nearly that,
I was a forward, pert, and graceless brat,
My tongue was bold, and saucy were my looks,
I lov'd my play much better than my books.
On Sabbath-days, with Thomas Stokes and Green-field
I pitch'd the quoit, shot sparrows in a bean-field;
At playhouse riots I was quite the thing,
When Ben, or Buckhorse fought, I kept the ring.
My father would have given pounds by twenties,
To bind me to some honest trade apprentice,
To crush my vicious habits in their growth,
But this I spurn'd, and answer'd with an oath;
For, ere the down appear'd upon my chin,
I was, though young in years, mature in sin.
But fate, in spite of all my follies past,
Resolv'd to turn my stubborn heart at last:
Stokes was transported in his tender years,
And Greenfield died with “Cotton in his ears;”
I just escap'd the same untimely check,
And turn'd King's Evidence, to save my neck!
I grew devout, apply'd myself to trade,
And groan'd, and sang, and prophesy'd, and pray'd,
Repriev'd, affronted, coax'd:—to sum up all
In simple language—I receiv'd a call.
To crown the whole, I took a second wife,
The Son of David lov'd the married life;
Five hundred wives had he, a noble suit!
And eke four hundred concubines to boot:
Allowing half the story to be true,
Peter might surely venture upon two!
Grown old at last, unmindful of reproach,
I feast, grow fat, kiss wife, and keep my coach;
No care have I about my latter end,
But live secure, while Satan is my friend.

Da.
Right deftly hast thou tun'd thy reed, my Peter,
And told thy tale in mighty pleasant metre;
But time is on the wing, I must be gone,
What says your watch? for mine is gone to pawn.

Pet.
A mighty lucky thought—as sure as Heaven,
It only wants ten minutes to eleven!
Collection Sunday to begin so late!
Do thou, good Damon, come and hold the plate;
But first, since thus our foolish quarrel ends,
Let's drink a pot of porter, and be friends.