The words had hardly pass’d his mouth
But they secure them both;
And Ralph, to show his furious zeal
And hatred to the cloth,
Runs to the vicar through the crowd,
And takes him by the throat:
How ill, says he, doth this become
Your character and coat!
Was it for this not long ago
You took the Covenant,
And in most solemn manner swore
That you’d become a saint?
And here he gave him such a pinch
That made the vicar shout,—
Good people, I shall murder’d be
By this ungodly lout.
He gripes my throat to that degree
I can’t his talons bear;
And if you do not hold his hands,
He’ll throttle me, I fear.
At this a butcher of the town
Steps up to Ralph in ire,—
What, will you squeeze his gullet through,
You son of blood and fire?
You are the Devil’s instrument
To execute the laws;
What, will you murther the poor man
With your phanatick claws?
At which the squire quits his hold,
And lugging out his blade,
Full at the sturdy butcher’s pate
A furious stroke he made.
A dismal outcry then began
Among the country folk;
Who all conclude the butcher slain
By such a mortal stroke.
But here good fortune, that has still
A friendship for the brave,
I’ th’ nick misguides the fatal blow,
And does the butcher save.