Part 29

Now if your zeal do warme ye, pray loud for fairer weather; Swear to live and die with the army, for these birds are flown together; The House is turn’d out a doe, (and I think it was no sin, too); If we take them there any more, we’ll throw the House out of the window. Sing hi ho, Tom Scot, {95} you lent the Devil your hand; I wonder he helpt you not, but suffred you t’ be trapand. Sing hi ho, etc.

They’re once again conduced, and we freed from the evil To which we long were used; God blesse us next from the Devil! If they had not been outed the array had been routed, And then this rotten Rump had sat until the last trump. But, hi ho, Lambert’s here, the Protector’s instrument bore, And many there be who swear that he will do it no more. Sing hi ho, etc.

Come here, then, honest Peters, {96} say grace for the second course, So long as these your betters must patience have upon force, Long time he kept a great noise with God and the Good old Cause, But if God own such as these, then where’s the Devil’s fees? Sing hi ho, Hugo, I hear thou art not dead; Where now to the Devil will you go, your patrons being fled? Sing hi ho, my honey, my heart shall never rue, Four-and-twenty now for a penny, and into the bargain Hugh.

THE TALE OF THE COBBLER AND THE VICAR OF BRAY.

Rara est concordia fratrum. Ovid.

By Samuel Butler.

The “Sir Samuel” of this Ballad is the same person—Sir Samuel Luke of Bedfordshire—who is supposed to have been the unconscious model of the portrait which is drawn so much more fully in the inimitable Hudibras. Ralph is also the well-known Squire in the same poem. The Ballad, though published in Butler’s “Posthumous Works,” 1724, was rejected by Thyer in the edition of 1784, and is not included in the “Genuine Remains,” published from the original manuscripts, formerly in the possession of William Longueville, Esq. If not by Butler, it is a successful imitation of his style, and abounds in phrases of sturdy colloquial English, and is of a date long anterior to the popular song, “The Vicar of Bray.”

IN Bedfordshire there dwelt a knight, Sir Samuel by name, Who by his feats in civil broils Obtain’d a mighty fame.

Nor was he much less wise and stout, But fit in both respects To humble sturdy Cavaliers, And to support the sects.

This worthy knight was one that swore He would not cut his beard Till this ungodly nation was From kings and bishops clear’d:

Which holy vow he firmly kept, And most devoutly wore A grizly meteor on his face Till they were both no more.

His worship was, in short, a man Of such exceeding worth, No pen or pencil can describe, Or rhyming bard set forth.

Many and mighty things he did Both sober and in liquor,— Witness the mortal fray between The Cobbler and the Vicar;

Which by his wisdom and his power He wisely did prevent, And both the combatants at once In wooden durance pent.

The manner how these two fell out And quarrell’d in their ale, I shall attempt at large to show In the succeeding tale.

A strolling cobbler, who was wont To trudge from town to town, Happen’d upon his walk to meet A vicar in his gown.

And as they forward jogg’d along, The vicar, growing hot, First asked the cobbler if he knew Where they might take a pot?

Yes, marry that I do, quoth he; Here is a house hard by, That far exceeds all Bedfordshire For ale and landlady.

Thither let’s go, the vicar said; And when they thither came, He liked the liquor wondrous well, But better far the dame.

And she, who, like a cunning jilt, Knew how to please her guest, Used all her little tricks and arts To entertain the priest.

The cobbler too, who quickly saw The landlady’s design, Did all that in his power was To manage the divine.

With smutty jests and merry songs They charm’d the vicar so, That he determined for that night No further he would go.

And being fixt, the cobbler thought ’Twas proper to go try If he could get a job or two His charges to supply.

So going out into the street, He bawls with all his might,— If any of you tread awry I’m here to set you right.

I can repair your leaky boots, And underlay your soles; Backsliders, I can underprop And patch up all your holes.

The vicar, who unluckily The cobbler’s outcry heard, From off the bench on which he sat With mighty fury rear’d.

Quoth he, What priest, what holy priest Can hear this bawling slave, But must, in justice to his coat, Chastise the saucy knave?

What has this wretch to do with souls, Or with backsliders either, Whose business only is his awls, His lasts, his thread, and leather?