Bloody News from CHELMSFORD:
OR, A Proper New
BALLAD,
CONTAINING
A true and perfect Relation of a most barbarous Murther committed upon the Body of a
Country Parson who died of a great Wound given him in the Bottom of his Belly, by a most Cruel Country-Butcher
for being too familiar with his Wife: For which Fact he is to be Tried for his Life at this next Assizes.
To the Tune of Chevy-Chase.
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GIve o'er, ye rhiming ranting Lads,
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that jeer'd at every turn;
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And sung how Jane towards Elders Cur
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in flames of love did burn.
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You too, that writ how Peters Hugh
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was Butchers Cuckold-maker:
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Or penn'd the Courtship past between
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She-filly and the Quaker.
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But come Droll-rampant Hudibras,
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Laureat of Garden-Paris,
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Bring me the great Bruinos spoils,
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(that Champion that so rare is.)
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For I would do as Nero fell
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with primitive Christians did:
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I'd make't a Cassock for my Priest,
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and bait him in Bears hide.
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In Essex (which like Affrick still
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some Monster is a yielding,
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Where once was bred a Roundheaded colt,
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and now a Rampant Gelding)
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Near Chelmsford Town a certain grave
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conforming-Parson dwelt,
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Chast from the Navil to the Teeth:
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Yet this good-man was gelt.
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Dull Lay-men have small reverence
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for any man of worth;
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A churlish Whorson did the feat:
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Sad Hint for Holder-forth!
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He dreaded not his Ghostly face,
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nor circle of his Girdle:
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But slasht him like to Traitor, new
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cut down, and laid on hurdle,
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Now you that would the story know,
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that nothing may escape us,
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Hark how poor Levite came to die
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a Martyr to Priapus.
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There liv'd a crafty Butcher wight
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near Palace Sacerdotal,
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Whose Spouse most amiable was,
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the sum of Beauty total.
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Lovelier then she for whom Jove turn'd
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himself to milk-white Bull a:
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Fair Rosamond was not so bright,
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nor half so comely Trulla.
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Sweeter then smiles of Infant-day,
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(as Servant cants to Mistress)
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Ah! 'twas the Sorcery of that face
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led Teacher into distress.
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He spy'd her first from Pulpit high,
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in p[au]se, the first Pray'r after,
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When zeal had turn'd up white of eye
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To stare on Churches rafter.
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(Quoth he to self) why stand I here
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(giving the Glass a jolt)
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To utter Sermon by retail,
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which might be done by dolt?
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Is not yon Woman purer Text
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to handle then an Homily?
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Sure 'twould be fruitfull truth to teach
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her, duties of a Family.
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Thus having thought, in haste he read
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to people printed lurri:
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Yet, that he could not say't by heart,
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for her sake he was sorry.
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For now at spawling intervals
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his eye did onely taste her:
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But race was run with greater speed
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then Nun sayes Peter Nostee.
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The Swain her Husband all this while
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watch'd whilest the Parson pray'd;
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He mark'd his leers when finger was
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at end of Sentence laid.
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Observ'd those arrows shot from sight
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at his fair Butt were levell'd:
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But swore the Priest had better been
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In mothers womb be-divell'd.
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Psalm sung, As from Cornelius Tub,
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the Parson came came down, reeking:
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And till he found that Hobnails house,
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vow'd never to lin seeking.
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At last he came to humble Cot
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Shrine, where his Goddess was
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Doublet of Straw, Breeches of Clay,
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and Fundament of Grass.
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In age of Gold, as Poets tell,
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(who seldome see such day)
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This was the place where Virtue slept
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upon a lock of Hay.
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The Dame, right busie at her work,
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sweet-Butter was a churning;
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When at the motion of the stick
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Priests bowels fell a yerning.
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Fair Nymph (said he) incontinent,
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lay by thy Typical Churn:
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(And then the Varlet turn'd aside
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to steal a lecherous giern.)
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Fie (Angel blest) why should that hand
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a wooden Instrument hold,
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Design'd to hold a better thing
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then Scepter made with Gold?
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Excellent Creature! be as kind
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as fair. heart obdurate
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"Is Satan's Anvil, where he knocks?
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Shall he knock, and not Curate?
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O woman, put the Devil behind,
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But put the Priest before:
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Full many a She for Cloak-divine,
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Hath done as much, or more.
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When I commenced Batchelor,
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All Cambridge did adore me:
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Why should a thing of feeble Sex
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Think much to fall before me?
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"This said; Nay, Pish, the good Wife cry'd:
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stand away for shame:
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"Are you a Minister, and care
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no more for a good Name?
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Good Name (quoth he) with that She smil'd
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and so they snugg'd together:
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But he had better slept i'th' street,
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then in her Bed of Feather:
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For just about that fatal hour
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when Dev'l came for Doctor
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Faustus; as Key of Lead had him,
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and in a dead sleep lockt her.
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The jealous Butcher blunders in:
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unseasonable Guest!
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Welcome as stones in Oats to Horse,
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or Skull at Egypt-Feast.
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O Caitiff vile, said Butcher then;
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and catcht him by the throat:
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I'll wreck my malice on thy blood,
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thou cursed lecherous Goat.
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me a Cuckold, Reading Rogue?
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Pulpit serve but Susan's?
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Susans Smock your Surplice be?
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take away that Nusance.
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'Good Husband, quoth the panting wife)
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in wrath no further,
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'Lest you be turn'd out Churches pale,
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one committing murder.
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Sir, gentle Sir, the Priest reply'd,
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as well as he could speak;
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For Butcher held his Gouty fist
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hard on his Enemies Neck.
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As Tunes, when Finger taken off,
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from Flajolets do come;
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So issu'd words from Curate's mouth,
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when Lout remov'd his Thumb.
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I confess that I have wrong'd
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and your loving Wife.
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Confess and hang, cry'd surely Boor;
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(and strait he drew his Knife.)
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The glitt'ring Blade, as keen as that
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which Felton bought near Tow'r,
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Made Susans heart go Pit-a-pat,
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and Lovers face look sow'r.
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honest Friend, Sir Roger cry'd;
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wilt thou take my life?
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No: but i'l seize those arms wherewith
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thou hast subdu'd my Wife.
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Though Theologu wept, & Wife did beg,
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Churl slighted words and tears,
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And at one gash from Curate took
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Musquet and Bandaliers.
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Thus RUMP in Forest not content
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to fell down Timber tall,
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Fanatiqu Slaves stub'd root and branch
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nay, Underwoods, and all.
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Now, Sir, (said Swain) if ere you chance
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to be Pope,
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'There will not need a sacred Chair
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Holiness to grope.
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'Go, go, live chast, as Clergy should,
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(course taken by your betters)
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'But come not near to London-town,
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there live Capon-eaters.
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But lo! while Scundrel thus did taunt
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the man of holy function,
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Wife well perceiv'd that body spent
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had need of extream Unction.
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Then did she wring her sweating Palms,
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and loudly did complain:
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But sighs and groans, and bellows-snout,
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to dying Bums are vain.
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The flood continually ran
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from place as bare as Common;
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Yet, even then, good Curate cast
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a dying glaunce at Woman.
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said he: bid Parsons all
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of Bevers fate:
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'For when they shall be serv'd like me,
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dumps will be too late.
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This said, --- the Curates mortal Cask,
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with Ribband hopt about,
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Rol'd down the Hill, and slipp'ry life
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for want of Tap ran out.
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The EPITAPH.
COurteous Reader! underneath
These Spires of fading Grass
Lies Curate, who (if Wives may
an able preacher was.
We hope his Soul in Heav'n is safe,
(though some scarce think so can:)
For though he sometimes liv'd upright
He di'd no perfect Man.
FINIS.
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