Mark yon round parson, fat and sleek,
Who preaches only once a week,
Whom claret, sloth, and ven'son join
To make an orthodox divine;
Whose holiness receives its beauty
From income large, and little duty;
Who loves the pipe, the glass, the smock,
And keeps — a curate for his flock.
The world obsequious to his nod
Shall hail this oily man of God,
While the poor priest, with half a score
Of prattling infants at his door,
Whose sober wishes ne'er regale
Beyond the homely jug of ale,
Is hardly deemed companion fit
For men of wealth, or men of wit,
Though learn'd perhaps and wise as he
Who signs with staring S.T.P.
And full of sacerdotal pride
Lays God and duty both aside.
" This curate, say you, learn'd and wise!
Why does not then this curate rise?"
This curate then, at forty-three,
(Years which become a curacy)
At no great mart of letters bred,
Had strange odd notions in his head,
That parts, and books, and application
Furnished all means of education;
And that a pulpiteer should know
More than his gaping flock below;
That learning was not got with pain
To be forgotten all again;
That Latin words, and rumbling Greek,
However charming sounds to speak,
Apt or unapt in each quotation,
Were insults on a congregation,
Who could not understand one word
Of all the learned stuff they heard;
That something more than preaching fine
Should go to make a sound divine;
That church and pray'r, and holy Sunday
Were no excuse for sinful Monday;
That pious doctrine, pious life,
Should make both one, as man and wife.
Thinking in this uncommon mode,
So out of all the priestly road,
What man alive can e'er suppose,
Who marks the way Preferment goes,
That she should ever find her way
To this poor curate's house of clay?
Such was the priest, so strangely wise!
He could not bow — how should he rise?
Learned he was, and deeply read,
But what of that? — not duly bred.
For he had sucked no grammar rules
From royal founts, or public schools,
Nor gained a single corn of knowledge
From that vast granary — a college.
A granary, which food supplies
To vermin of uncommon size.
Aye, now indeed the matter's clear,
There is a mighty error here.
A public school's the place alone,
Where talents may be duly known.
It has, no doubt, its imperfections,
But then, such friendships! such connections!
The parent, who has formed his plan,
And in his child considered man,
What is his grand and golden rule,
" Make your connections, child, at school,
Mix with your equals, fly inferiors,
But follow closely your superiors,
On them your ev'ry hope depends,
Be prudent, Tom, get useful friends;
And therefore like a spider wait,
And spin your web about the great.
If my Lord's genius wants supplies,
Why — you must make his exercise.
Let the young marquis take your place,
And bear a whipping for his Grace.
Suppose (such things may happen once)
The nobles wits, and you the dunce,
Improve the means of education,
And learn commodious adulation.
Your master scarcely holds it sin,
He chucks his Lordship on the chin,
And would not for the world rebuke,
Beyond a pat, the schoolboy duke.
The pastor there, of — what's the place? —
With smiles eternal in his face,
With dimpling cheek, and snowy hand,
That shames the whiteness of his band,
Whose mincing dialect abounds
In hums and hahs, and half-formed sounds;
Whose elocution, fine and chaste,
Lays his commainds with judgment vaist ,
And lest the company should hear,
Whispers his nothings in your ear —
Think you 'twas zeal, or virtue's care
That placed the smirking Doctor there?
No — 'twas connections formed at school
With some rich wit, or noble fool,
Obsequious flattery, and attendance,
A wilful, useful, base dependence;
A supple bowing of the knees
To any human God you please.
(For true good breeding's so polite,
'Twould call the very Devil white)."
Who preaches only once a week,
Whom claret, sloth, and ven'son join
To make an orthodox divine;
Whose holiness receives its beauty
From income large, and little duty;
Who loves the pipe, the glass, the smock,
And keeps — a curate for his flock.
The world obsequious to his nod
Shall hail this oily man of God,
While the poor priest, with half a score
Of prattling infants at his door,
Whose sober wishes ne'er regale
Beyond the homely jug of ale,
Is hardly deemed companion fit
For men of wealth, or men of wit,
Though learn'd perhaps and wise as he
Who signs with staring S.T.P.
And full of sacerdotal pride
Lays God and duty both aside.
" This curate, say you, learn'd and wise!
Why does not then this curate rise?"
This curate then, at forty-three,
(Years which become a curacy)
At no great mart of letters bred,
Had strange odd notions in his head,
That parts, and books, and application
Furnished all means of education;
And that a pulpiteer should know
More than his gaping flock below;
That learning was not got with pain
To be forgotten all again;
That Latin words, and rumbling Greek,
However charming sounds to speak,
Apt or unapt in each quotation,
Were insults on a congregation,
Who could not understand one word
Of all the learned stuff they heard;
That something more than preaching fine
Should go to make a sound divine;
That church and pray'r, and holy Sunday
Were no excuse for sinful Monday;
That pious doctrine, pious life,
Should make both one, as man and wife.
Thinking in this uncommon mode,
So out of all the priestly road,
What man alive can e'er suppose,
Who marks the way Preferment goes,
That she should ever find her way
To this poor curate's house of clay?
Such was the priest, so strangely wise!
He could not bow — how should he rise?
Learned he was, and deeply read,
But what of that? — not duly bred.
For he had sucked no grammar rules
From royal founts, or public schools,
Nor gained a single corn of knowledge
From that vast granary — a college.
A granary, which food supplies
To vermin of uncommon size.
Aye, now indeed the matter's clear,
There is a mighty error here.
A public school's the place alone,
Where talents may be duly known.
It has, no doubt, its imperfections,
But then, such friendships! such connections!
The parent, who has formed his plan,
And in his child considered man,
What is his grand and golden rule,
" Make your connections, child, at school,
Mix with your equals, fly inferiors,
But follow closely your superiors,
On them your ev'ry hope depends,
Be prudent, Tom, get useful friends;
And therefore like a spider wait,
And spin your web about the great.
If my Lord's genius wants supplies,
Why — you must make his exercise.
Let the young marquis take your place,
And bear a whipping for his Grace.
Suppose (such things may happen once)
The nobles wits, and you the dunce,
Improve the means of education,
And learn commodious adulation.
Your master scarcely holds it sin,
He chucks his Lordship on the chin,
And would not for the world rebuke,
Beyond a pat, the schoolboy duke.
The pastor there, of — what's the place? —
With smiles eternal in his face,
With dimpling cheek, and snowy hand,
That shames the whiteness of his band,
Whose mincing dialect abounds
In hums and hahs, and half-formed sounds;
Whose elocution, fine and chaste,
Lays his commainds with judgment vaist ,
And lest the company should hear,
Whispers his nothings in your ear —
Think you 'twas zeal, or virtue's care
That placed the smirking Doctor there?
No — 'twas connections formed at school
With some rich wit, or noble fool,
Obsequious flattery, and attendance,
A wilful, useful, base dependence;
A supple bowing of the knees
To any human God you please.
(For true good breeding's so polite,
'Twould call the very Devil white)."