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THE BALLADIST PARSON
I'll sing you a song of a Parson to-night,
Who in black-letter broadsides doth chiefly delight:
You'll not find another so learnèd as he
In all that relates to song, ballad and glee.
Who in black-letter broadsides doth chiefly delight:
You'll not find another so learnèd as he
In all that relates to song, ballad and glee.
His head is a storehouse of curious lore
About old romances and ballads of yore;
He delights in them hugely and carols them too,
And can write them besides when he's in the right cue.
About old romances and ballads of yore;
He delights in them hugely and carols them too,
And can write them besides when he's in the right cue.
Of course he is poor, for he never could stoop
In formality's bands his fine spirit to coop:
So by patrons and squires he's been left in the lurch—
He's too much of a man to get on in the church!
In formality's bands his fine spirit to coop:
So by patrons and squires he's been left in the lurch—
He's too much of a man to get on in the church!
But that doesn't vex him—he cares not for pelf,
And he thinks of all else ere he thinks of himself;
With his ballads and books he's more happy, I ween,
Than if they had made him a Bishop or Dean.
And he thinks of all else ere he thinks of himself;
With his ballads and books he's more happy, I ween,
Than if they had made him a Bishop or Dean.
There's one dogma he finds very hard to believe—
He can't think that sin was created through Eve:
Like a knight of old times he'll her honour attest,
And Adam, he thinks, was a sneak at the best.
He can't think that sin was created through Eve:
Like a knight of old times he'll her honour attest,
And Adam, he thinks, was a sneak at the best.
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