By priestcraft the pulpit’s perverted, The parson’s deprav’d and impure; With projects profane preconcerted, A leacherous lout to allure. Each cuddles his coney or rabbit, And pleasantly purr with puss-cats; Hence with husky harlots cohabit, And handle a herdling’s old hats. When pregnant, the spinster’s exported Till she spawn her spurious sprouts, Hence home with due caution escorted To free the fecundine from flouts. At Alnwick, this pious imposter And Betty have boarded their brats; Where they keep a female to foster Their moppets, and Matthew’s pit-rats. The quorum confer’d a commission Upon this canonical quack, Expecting the learned logician Contentions would quell garb’d in black. This pastor unprick’d with compunction, His church with unchastity chimes, And forfeits the fame of his function, By columns of scandal and crimes. Here follows a fatal relation, By curses and conduct unkind, (A fact prov’d by clear demonstration) The brute broke the heart of his hind. This curate (kept quite unconnected With chums who in crowds coalesce) Was by the whole parish respected, For piety, prudence, and peace. I’m sanction’d to say in the sequel, His worship, by keeping a wench, Incurs the contempt of each equal, His betters, the bar, and the bench. Traduce not the strains of a student, Untaught in a technical style; Nor pronounce a pupil imprudent, For truths told on varlets so vile!!! SONG. There was five wives at Acomb, And five wives at Wa’, And five wives at Fallowfield, That’s fifteen o’ them a’. They’ve druken ale and brandy, ’Till they are all fu’; And I cannot get home to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, And I cannot get home to My Eppie I trow. The Tyne water’s se deep, that I cannot wade through; And I’ve no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, And I’ve no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow. In Tyne I hev not a boat, Nor yet cou’d I row, Across the deep water to My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, My Eppie I trow, And I’ve no horse to ride to My Eppie I trow. LITTLE BILLY. Now little Billy is gone to the kirk, And so merrily he doth sing: I catch’d the parson in bed with my mother, But I woud’nt tell it for any thing. Thou art a liar, says Mess John, I never did thy mother no harm: I never was in her house in my life, But once or twice for a penorth of barm. Thou art a liar, said little Billy, As sure as thou’rt on thy knees at prayer: Did’nt I catch thee in bed with my mother, And did’nt I tumble thee down the stairs.