( 56 )
THE VICAR AND MOSES.
AT the fign of the Horfe, old Spintext of courfe, Each night took his pipe and his pot, O'er a jorum of nappy, quite pieafant and happy,
Was plac'd the canonical fot : The evening was dark, when in came the clerk,
With reverence due and iubmiflion, Firft ftrok'd his cravat, then twirl'd round his hat, And bowing preferred his petition.
I'm come, fir, fays he, to beg, look d'ye fee,
Of your reverend worfliip and glory, To inter a poor baby, with as much ipeed as may be,
And I'll walk with the lanthorn before you. The body we'll bury, but where's the hurry ?
Why, Lord, Sir, the corpfe it does ftay, You fool hold your peace, fince miracles ceafe,
A corpfe, Moles, can't run away.
Then Mofes he fmil'd, crying, fir, a fmall child,
Cannot longer delay our intentions, And I fwear by St. Paul, a child that is fmall
Can never enlarge its dimenfions. Bring Mofes fome beer, and bring me fome, d'ye hear,
For I hate to be call'd from my liquor, Come Mofes, the King, 'tis a fcandalous thing,
Such a fubject fhould be but a vicar.
Then Mofes he fpoke, 'tis paft twelve o'clock,
Befides there's a terrible mower, Why Mofes you elf, fince the clock has ftruck
twelve, I'm fure it can never ftrike more ;
Befides,.
�� �
