BO-PEEP,
OR THE
JERKING PARSON
Catechising his
MAID;
A pleasant BALLAD to the Tune of
Notcrof's Delight.
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WHen Oliver that Imp of Mars
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did rule the English land,
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And London trembled at his force
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from Algate to the strand;
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Disorders did there
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Most frequent appear,
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As by this one you'l understand.
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There was a Parson (so tis said)
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a Crafty one I wot,
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Who in his house a pretty maid
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for exercise had got:
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Upon every fault
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She did, she was brought
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Coram nobis, and went to the pot.
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He catechiz'd early and late,
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and to her duty firkt her,
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Well could he preach, well could he prate,
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for hee's an able jerker:
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Before and behind
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water and wind
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He fetcht her up stifly, & yerkt her.
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The man was a man of conscience,
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and guided by the spirit
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To handle the flesh of the wench,
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according to her merit:
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The flesh being proud,
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Though sh'e were but a dowd,
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He knew the way well how to curry't.
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Reproof with a cudgel breakes bones,
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and other weapons gash;
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A rod is a tool for the nonce,
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that gives the gentle slash:
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The girle was but young,
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And shame ties her tongue,
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Whilst he brings her under the lash.
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For breaking of commandements,
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of which there was no lack,
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She's punished to all intents
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by the little man in black.
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Though n'ere so demure,
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Her coats fly up sure
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As she hath a coat to her back.
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When table was not rubbed bright
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(which handkercheif did try)
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Or anything not set to right,
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belongs to huswifery;
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He took up her smock,
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And he lash't her nock,
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And corrected her zealously.
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Sabbath-neglects he's sure to pay,
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though to a Sabbath breach;
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For prating once whilst he did pray,
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he fetcht up the poor wretch:
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And he set the fool
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on the penitent stool,
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Whilst he a private Lecture preacht.
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One time above all was very sad,
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(upon some small omission.)
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The custome of women then she had,
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(a pitifull condition)
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Yet he administers
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The usuall glisters;
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For hee's her ghostly physician.
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Although she cry out, and lament,
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though down she fals, and kneels,
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Yet he knows not how to relent,
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and no compassion feels:
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For it was his use
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To take no excuse,
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Till he saw bloud run down her heels.
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SOme question the mans discretion
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to meddle thus with's maid,
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And think it a forward passion,
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that put him on this trade:
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It being's wif'es place;
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Since Mol, Peg, and Grace
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By Mistresses hand should be paid.
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True, had his wife bin very young,
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a brave and lustie pudge,
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In hand as able as in tongue,
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he need not play'd the drudge.
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But she's very old,
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As I have been told,
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Which made the man to the work trudge.
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Wherefore to spare his consorts arm,
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and her two paire of eyes,
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Which could have done the wench no harm;
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He t'execution hies.
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With vigorous might
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And a nimble fight
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To look babies in the maides thighs.
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But the wicked do fleer and mock,
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and tauntingly give out,
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The Parson sure is a smell-smock:
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now fy, ungodly rout,
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Did he but hear,
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Hee'd teach you to jeer,
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And indite you all t'other bout.
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Indeed, I confesse, were his taile
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as hot as his head the while;
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With a wench hee'd play truss a faile,
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soon as any within a mile:
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But he of all sure
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Can't the smock indure,
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'Bout surplice he keeps such a coile.
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If Babylon's whore herself
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should come across his way,
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Be she n'ere so gallant. the elf
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would trounce her fine array.
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For when he is vext
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And a breech is his text,
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Hee'l be sure to claw it away.
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Every stroke he aim'd aright
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the wench he never mist her.
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He laid on blowes with all his might,
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nor us'd her like a sister:
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His arme had a spring,
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And so frely did fling,
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That every jerk rais'd a blister.
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As the devil in his wild fits
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hug'd the witch, so he did hug her
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He stung her with unlucky hits:
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I shall not speak t' in mugger,
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He hath got the odds
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Of westminster rods,
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Though manag'd by black Jack Bugger.
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He's a friend of the Kings he brags,
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as back-friend to all rumps;
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Hee'd taw'd Bum politick to jags.
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and put um to their trumps:
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Hewsons strap, Prides sling,
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Could not give the ding
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As his rod, which he wore to the stumps.
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Let none doubt the truth of this story,
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although it seem absurd:
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Much truer it is then John Dory,
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for it is upon record:
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When were't not for Pack,
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The Presbyter Jack
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Had paid for his peeping, I heard.
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A triall there was in guild-hall,
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I shall not, readers, jobe ye;
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Court set, the maid swore point-blanck; all
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the people shouted, Ho boy!
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he was in a shrape,
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he could hardly scape,
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For tickling th' Apocryphal Toby.
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Her dying mothers oath came in,
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which witnessed the same;
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His wives oath though, if not from sin,
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yet sav'd him from the shame:
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For the parish Pope
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Can give himself scope
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To cog a dy in an ill game.
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One word to the vestry let me speake,
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one word, I say, or twain,
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Ere my discourse I off do break.
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for parson whipsters gain,
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That you him prefer
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To be Lecturer
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To London-maids in Birchen-lane.
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