He threw his surplice o’er his head, and bad the pair adieu, sir:
They both did pray, that he might stay, for they were not half bound, sir!
He bid them go to bed that night, he’d tally O the hounds, sir.
What think you of this priest of mine, he’s sure an honest heart, sir,
His praise is worthy of my song, he has neither pride nor art, sir:
He ne’er opprest, the poor distrest, none e’er his praise disowns, sir,
As he thinks’t no crime, at any time, to tally O the hounds, sir.
