THE PARSONS CLERK.

Drawn by Etch'd by Theodore Lane

Etch'd by Geo. Hunt.

[Written by T. Hudson.]

### Tune—"The Dashing White Serjeant."

That Saints may claim a dispensation,
To swear and forswear on occasion,
I doubt not but it will appear!
With pregnant light; the point is clear,

"Oaths are but words, and words but wind,

"Too feeble implements to bind,

"And hold with deeds proportion so,

"As shadows to a substance do.

HUDIBRAS.

Near MOORFIELDS is a House of Prayer,

Which every Chapel goer knows,

Pious folk they do go there,

To—sport their Sunday Clothes.

The Parson—fill'd with Gospel Grace,

Could show good living in his face,

And Fruits of the Spirit you might trace

in the dark!

Just beneath him did appear,

A man who sang so sweet and clear,

The Hymns for—Twenty Pounds a year,

The Parson's Clerk!

MISTER JOSEPH JOSHUA TWIGHT,

Always dressed as if in print,

His eyes were beautifully bright,

Though they had a little squint,

He gave out a Hymn—his head he shook,

One eye was fixed upon the Book,

T'other would round the Chapel look,

only mark!

Like others he could not resist,

Singing with a beautiful nasal twist,

The while he beat time with his fist,

The Parson's Clerk.

By Fate's decree a rich man died,
Whose Widow with much grief and pain,

On Sundays to the Chapel hied,

In hopes— to —wed—again,

The Flesh did the Spirit sore assail,

She prayed that her prayers might avail,

And sung as sweet as a Nightingale,

or a Lark!

She look'd as harmless as a Dove,

Thought Love Feasts were Feasts of Love,

Turn'd her eyes on Heaven above,

And the Parson's Clerk!

MISTER TWIGHT tho' his eyes were bad,

A nose so keen and sharp hud got,

In less than “no time at all,” egad,

He smelt out, “what was what?”

And soon gave her to understand,

By piously talking of Wedlock's band,

Sigh'd and groan'd and squeezed her hand,

In the dark!

A month from the time her husband died,

At living alone so much she sigh'd,

She—went—to Church and was fairly—tied

To the Parson's Clerk!

'Ere the Honey Moon had flown,

His manners somehow seemed so strange,

He dress'd quite spruce—left her alone.

Astonish'd at the change,

[Founded on Facts.]

From Righteous paths he turned astray,
And even on the Sabbath Day,

Drue'd himself in a One Horse Shay,

In the Park!

And all the week—I don't know how,

At singing Glees he made a row,

And got as drunk as “Davy's sow”

“Glorious Apollo,”
The Parson's Clerk!

Only a short time after that

These revels turn to grief and care,

He was took by a man with “large cock'd hat,”

Before the Great Lord Mayor.

Charges against him not a few,

For being in Love, and being untrue,

And Children sworn—a dozen or two;

fair and dark!

And when at the truth they did arrive,

To shew what a rare game he did drive,

He'd three Wives besides, and all alive!

This Parson's Clerk!

Committed to Newgate's dreary cell,

Proof of Guilt beyond all doubt,

He served three years in Clerkenwell,

And then—quite fresh—came out,

His Wives were gone—he—knew not where,

And what was more—he—did—not—care,

He wanted a Trade—the wind was fair,

to embark!

For Gospel Grace, his bowels yearn'd,

He had a call! it was not spurn'd

And now he's a Methodist Parson turn'd,

This Parson's Clerk.

Published by Geo. HUNT, 18, Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, and T. HUDSON, 98, Shoe Lane, Fleet Street, where his other Comic Songs may be had.

[Entered at Stationer's Hall]