The words had hardly pass’d his mouth But they secure them both; And Ralph, to show his furious zeal And hatred to the cloth, Runs to the vicar through the crowd, And takes him by the throat: How ill, says he, doth this become Your character and coat! Was it for this not long ago You took the Covenant, And in most solemn manner swore That you’d become a saint? And here he gave him such a pinch That made the vicar shout,— Good people, I shall murder’d be By this ungodly lout. He gripes my throat to that degree I can’t his talons bear; And if you do not hold his hands, He’ll throttle me, I fear. At this a butcher of the town Steps up to Ralph in ire,— What, will you squeeze his gullet through, You son of blood and fire? You are the Devil’s instrument To execute the laws; What, will you murther the poor man With your phanatick claws? At which the squire quits his hold, And lugging out his blade, Full at the sturdy butcher’s pate A furious stroke he made. A dismal outcry then began Among the country folk; Who all conclude the butcher slain By such a mortal stroke. But here good fortune, that has still A friendship for the brave, I’ th’ nick misguides the fatal blow, And does the butcher save. The knight, who heard the noise within, Runs out with might and main, And seeing Ralph amidst the crowd In danger to be slain, Without regard to age or sex Old basket-hilt so ply’d, That in an instant three or four Lay bleeding at his side. And greater mischiefs in his rage This furious knight had done, If he had not prevented been By Dick, the blacksmith’s son, Who catch’d his worship on the hip, And gave him such a squelch, That he some moments breathless lay Ere he was heard to belch. Nor was the squire in better case, By sturdy butcher ply’d, Who from the shoulder to the flank Had soundly swinged his hide. Whilst things in this confusion stood, And knight and squire disarm’d, Up comes a neighbouring gentleman The outcry had alarm’d; Who riding up among the crowd, The vicar first he spy’d, With sleeveless gown and bloody band And hands behind him ty’d. Bless me, says he, what means all this? Then turning round his eyes, In the same plight, or in a worse, The cobbler bleeding spies. And looking further round he saw, Like one in doleful dump, The knight, amidst a gaping mob, Sit pensive on his rump. And by his side lay Ralph his squire, Whom butcher fell had maul’d; Who bitterly bemoan’d his fate, And for a surgeon call’d. Surprised at first he paused awhile, And then accosts the knight,— What makes you here, Sir Samuel, In this unhappy plight?