THE
VICAR AND MOSES,
A New Song.
Words by C. A. STEVENS.
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AT the sign of the Horse, old SPINTEXT of course,
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Each night took his pipe and his pot,
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O'era jorum of nappy, quite pleasant and happy
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Was plac'd the canonical sot;
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The Evening was dark, when in came the clerk,
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With reverence due and submission,
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First strok'd his cravat, then twirl'd round his hat,
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And bowing preferr'd his petition.
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I'm come, sir, says he, to beg, look d'ye see?
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Of your reverend worship and glory,
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T'inter a poor baby, with as much speed as may be,
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And I'll walk with the lanthorn before you.
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The body we'll bury, but pray where's the hurry?
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Why lord sir, the corpse it does stay;
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You fool, hold your peace, since miracles cease,
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A corpse, Moses can't run away.
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Then Moses he smil'd, crying sir, a small child
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Cannot long delay your intentions:
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Why that's true by St. Paul, a child that is small
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Can never enlarge its dementions;
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Bring Moses some beer, and bring me some, d'ye hear,
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For I hate to be call'd from my liquor;
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Come Moses, The KING: 'tis a scandalous thing,
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Such a subject should be but a Vicar.
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Then Moses he spoke, sir, 'tis past twelve o'clock,
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Besides there's a terrible shower:
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Why Moses, you elf, since the clock has struck twelve,
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I'm sure it can never strike more;
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Besides, my dear friend, to this lesson attend,
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Which to say and to swear, I'll be bold.
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That the corpse, snow or rain; can't endanger, 'tis [p]lain
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But perhaps you or I may take cold.
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Then Moses went on, sir, the clock has struck one,
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Pray Master look up at the hand,
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Why, it can never strike less, 'tis a folly to press
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A man for to go that can't stand;
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At length hat and cloak old Orthodox took,
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But first cram'd his jaws with a quid;
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Each tip'd off his jill, for fear they should chill
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Then stagger'd away side by side.
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When come to the grave, the clerk hum'd a stave.
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Whilst the surplice was wrapt round the priest;
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So droll was the figure of Moses and Vicar,
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That the Parish still talk of the jest.
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Good people let's pray,--- put the corpse 'tother way
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Or, perchance I shall o'er it stumble;
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'Tis best to take care, tho' the Sages declare,
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A MORTUM CAPUIT, can't tremble.
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Woman that's born of Man, --- that's wrong, the leaf's torn.
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O! Man that is born of Woman,
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Can't continue an hour, but's cut down like a flower.
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You see Moses, Death spareth no man.
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Here Moses, do look what a confounded book,
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Sure the letters are turn'd upside down,
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Such a scandalous print, sure the Devil is in't,
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That this BASKET should print for the crown.
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Prithee Moses you read, for I can't proceed,
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And bury the corpse in my stead,
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et Amen et Amen,
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Why Moses you're wrong, pray hold still your tongue,
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You've taken the tail for the head:
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O where's thy sting Death? put the corpse in the earth,
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For, believe me, 'tis terrible weather,
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So the corpse was inter'd without praying a word,
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And away they both stagger'd together.
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