Perch’d up in his pulpit, one Sunday, he cry’d, “Make patience, my dearly beloved, your guide, And in your distresses, your troubles, your crosses, Remember the patience of Job in his losses.” The parson had got a stout cask of beer, By way of a present—no matter from where— Suffice it to know, it was toothsome and good, And he lov’d it as well as he did his own blood. {288} While he the church service in haste rambled o’er, The hogs found a way thro’ his old cellar door, And by the strong scent to the beer barrel led Had knock’d out the spiggot or cock from its head. Out spurted the liquor abroad on the ground, The unbidden guests quaffed it merrily round, Nor from their diversion and merriment ceas’d Till ev’ry hog there was as drunk as a beast. And now the grave lecture and prayers at an end, He brings along with him a neighbouring friend, To be a partaker of Sunday’s good cheer, And taste the delightful October brew’d beer. The dinner was ready, the things were laid snug, “Here, wife,” says the parson, “go fetch us a mug,” But a mug of what?—he had scarce time to tell her, When, “yonder,” says she, “are the hogs in the cellar. To be sure they got in when we’re at prayers,” “To be sure you’re a fool,” said he, “get you down stairs, And bring what I bid you, and see what’s the matter. For now I myself hear a grunting and clatter.” She went, and returned with sorrowful face, In suitable phrases related the case, He rav’d like a madman about in the room, And then beat his wife and the hogs with the broom. “Lord, husband,” said she, “what a coil you keep here, About a poor beggarly barrel of beer. You should, ‘_in your troubles, mischances, and crosses, Remember the patience of Job in his losses_.’” “A plague upon Job,” cried the priest in his rage, “That beer, I dare say, was near ten years of age; But you’re a poor ignorant jade like _his_ wife; For Job never had such a cask in his life.”