This cobbler happening to o’ertake
The vicar in his walk,
In friendly sort they forward march,
And to each other talk.
Until the parson first proposed
To stop and take a whet;
So cheek by jole they hither came
Like travellers well met.
A world of healths and jests went round,
Sometimes a merry tale;
Till they resolved to stay all night,
So well they liked my ale.
Thus all things lovingly went on,
And who so great as they;
Before an ugly accident
Began this mortal fray.
The case I take it to be this,—
The vicar being fixt,
The cobbler chanced to cry his trade,
And in his cry he mixt
Some harmless words, which I suppose
The vicar falsely thought
Might be design’d to banter him,
And scandalize his coat.
If that be all, quoth he, go out
And bid them both come in;
A dozen of your nappy ale
Will set ’em right again.
And if the ale should chance to fail,
For so perhaps it may,
I have it in my powers to try
A more effectual way.
These vicars are a wilful tribe,
A restless, stubborn crew;
And if they are not humbled quite,
The State they will undo.
The cobbler is a cunning knave,
That goes about by stealth,
And would, instead of mending shoes,
Repair the Commonwealth.