A Lady loved a Parson good,
And vowed she'd still be true,
Alas, the Sword goes o'er the Hood,
The Sword of Montague!
'What ribaldry have you got now?' said Wogan, but the Crow hastily embraced him in the French manner, holding the paper of the ballad over his shoulder, and still chanting.
'The little Parson is made immortal,' quoth he. 'Here is the newest ballad, all the story of his late amorous misfortune. Why do you look so glum?'
For Wogan had gently disengaged himself from Mr. Talbot's embrace, who exhaled a perfume of wine and strong waters.
'Crow, you fool, be quiet,' said Wogan; 'this is miching mallecho! Who wrote that rant?'
'We think it is Lady Mary Montagu, from the Latin tags; it is headed Cedat Armis Toga.'
But Lady Mary was not the writer, though she got the credit of the mischievous nonsense, as was intended, and 'hence these tears,' as the Parson said.