Classic Poem

Whoever pleaseth to inquire,
Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The grey old fellow poet Joe
The philosophic cause will show.

Once, on a time a Western blast,
At least twelve inches overcast,
Reckoning roof, weathercock and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall;
And tumbling topsyturvy round
Light with its bottom on the ground.

For by the laws of gravitation,
It fell into its proper station.

This is the little strutting pile,
You see just by the churchyard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock;
And thus the steeple got a shock;
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
The steeple 'Knock', the vicar 'Walls'.

The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knees up to his chin;
Here cons his notes, and takes a whet,
Till a small ragged flock is met.

A traveller, who by did pass,
Observed the roof behind the grass;
On tiptoe stood and reared his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out;
Was much surprised to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.

A schoolboy ran unto't and thought,
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forced, for safety, to alight,
And stepping o'er the fabric roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof.

Warburton took it in his noddie,
This building was designed a model,
Or of a pigeon-house, or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.

Then Mrs Johnson gave her verdict,
And everyone was pleased, that heard it:
'All that you make this stir about,
Is but a still which wants a spout.'
The Reverend Dr Raymond guessed,
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.

The Doctor's family came by,
And little Miss began to cry;
Give me that house in my own hand;
Then Madam bid the chariot stand,
Called to the clerk in manner mild,
'Pray reach that thing here to the child,
That thing, I mean, among the kale,
And here's to buy a pot of ale.'

The clerk said to her in a heat,
'What? sell my master's country seat?
Where he comes every week from town;
He would not sell it for a crown.'
'Poh! Fellow keep not such a pother,
In half an hour thou'lt make another.'

Says Nancy, 'I can make for Miss,
A finer house ten times than this,
The Dean will give me willow sticks,
And Joe my apron full of bricks.'