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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[An]d sung how Jane towards Elders Cur
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[i]n flames of love did burn.
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[Yo]u 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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[Bu]t come Droll-rampant Hudibras,
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Laureat of Garden-Paris,
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[Br]ing me the great Bruinos spoils,
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(that Champion that so rare is.)
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[F]or 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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[I]n 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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[B]ut flasht 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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[H]ark 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 pause, 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 Pater 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 the 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. An 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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Nay, 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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Make me a Cuckold, Reading Rogue?
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Pulpit serve but Susan's?
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Must 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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Sir! 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 Susan's heart go Pit-a-pat,
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and Lovers face look sow'r.
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Hold honest Friend, Sir Roger cry'd;
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what? 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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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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'Farewel, 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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