THE PARSON

And with him came the stock which grew him —

The parson and his sporting wife,

She was a stout one, full of life

With red, quick, kindly, manly face.

She held the knave, queen, king, and ace

In every hand she played with men.

She was no sister to the hen,

But fierce and minded to be queen.

She wore a coat and skirt of green,

Her waistcoat cut of bunting red,

Her tie pin was a fox's head.

The parson was a manly one,

His jolly eyes were bright with fun.

His jolly mouth was well inclined

To cry aloud his jolly mind

To everyone, in jolly terms.

He did not talk of churchyard worms,

But of our privilege as dust

To box a lively bout with lust

Ere going to Heaven to rejoice.

He loved the sound of his own voice.

His talk was like a charge of horse;

His build was all compact, for force,

Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager,

He kept no Lent to make him meagre.

He loved his God, himself and man.

He never said “Life's wretched span;

This wicked world,” in any sermon.

This body, that we feed the worm on,

To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.

He liked to see the foxes killed;

But most he felt himself in clover

To hear “Hen left, hare right, cock over,”

At woodside, when the leaves are brown.

Some grey cathedral in a town

Where drowsy bells toll out the time

To shaven closes sweet with lime,

And wall-flower roots drive out of the mortar

All summer on the Norman Dortar,

Was certain some day to be his.

Nor would a mitre go amiss

To him, because he governed well.

His voice was like the tenor bell

When services were said and sung.

And he had read in many a tongue,

Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.