And I’ll appeal to any man That understands the nation, If I han’t done more good than you In my respective station. Old leather, I must needs confess, I’ve sometimes used as new, And often pared the soal so near That I have spoil’d the shoe. You vicars, by a different way, Have done the very same; For you have pared your doctrines so You made religion lame. Your principles you’ve quite disown’d, And old ones changed for new, That no man can distinguish right Which are the false or true. I dare be bold, you’re one of those Have took the Covenant; With Cavaliers are Cavalier, And with the saints a saint. The vicar at this sharp rebuke Begins to storm and swear; Quoth he, Thou vile apostate wretch! Dost thou with me compare? I that have care of many souls, And power to damn or save, Dar’st thou thyself compare with me, Thou vile, ungodly knave! I wish I had thee somewhere else, I’d quickly make thee know What ’tis to make comparisons, And to revile me so. Thou art an enemy to the State, Some priest in masquerade, That, to promote the Pope’s designs, Has learnt the cobbling trade: Or else some spy to Cavaliers, And art by them sent out To carry false intelligence, And scatter lies about. But whilst the vicar full of ire Was railing at this rate, His worship, good Sir Samuel, O’erlighted at the gate. And asking of the landlady Th’ occasion of the stir; Quoth she, If you will give me leave I will inform you, Sir. This cobbler happening to o’ertake The vicar in his walk, In friendly sort they forward march, And to each other talk. Until the parson first proposed To stop and take a whet; So cheek by jole they hither came Like travellers well met. A world of healths and jests went round, Sometimes a merry tale; Till they resolved to stay all night, So well they liked my ale. Thus all things lovingly went on, And who so great as they; Before an ugly accident Began this mortal fray. The case I take it to be this,— The vicar being fixt, The cobbler chanced to cry his trade, And in his cry he mixt Some harmless words, which I suppose The vicar falsely thought Might be design’d to banter him, And scandalize his coat. If that be all, quoth he, go out And bid them both come in; A dozen of your nappy ale Will set ’em right again. And if the ale should chance to fail, For so perhaps it may, I have it in my powers to try A more effectual way. These vicars are a wilful tribe, A restless, stubborn crew; And if they are not humbled quite, The State they will undo.