And thus the cobbler stitched and sung,
Not thinking any harm;
Till out the angry vicar came
With ale and passion warm.
Dost thou not know, vile slave! quoth he,
How impious ’tis to jest
With sacred things, and to profane
The office of a priest?
How dar’st thou, most audacious wretch!
Those vile expressions use,
Which make the souls of men as cheap
As soals of boots and shoes?
Such reprobates as you betray
Our character and gown,
And would, if you had once the power,
The Church itself pull down.
The cobbler, not aware that he
Had done or said amiss,
Reply’d, I do not understand
What you can mean by this.
Tho’ I but a poor cobbler be,
And stroll about for bread,
None better loves the Church than I
That ever wore a head.
But since you are so good at names,
And make so loud a pother,
I’ll tell you plainly I’m afraid
You’re but some cobbling brother.
Come, vicar, tho’ you talk so big,
Our trades are near akin;
I patch and cobble outward soals
As you do those within.
And I’ll appeal to any man
That understands the nation,
If I han’t done more good than you
In my respective station.
Old leather, I must needs confess,
I’ve sometimes used as new,
And often pared the soal so near
That I have spoil’d the shoe.