“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—
The snuggest vicarage on earth;
No sort of duty (so I hear),
And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
“If on the price we should agree,
The living soon will vacant be;
The good incumbent’s ninety five,
And cannot very long survive.
“See—here’s his photograph—you see,
He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me!
Poor soul!” said Simon. “His decease
Would be a merciful release!”
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—
The agent blew his nose and winked—
And poked the parson’s ribs in play—
It was that agent’s vulgar way.
The Reverend Simon frowned: “I grieve
This light demeanour to perceive;
It’s scarcely comme il faut, I think:
Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—
Your mission is to sell the souls
Of human sheep and human kids
To that divine who highest bids.
“Do well in this, and on your head
Unnumbered honours will be shed.”
The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,
I have been doing very well.”
“You should,” said Simon, “at your age;
But now about the parsonage.
How many rooms does it contain?
Show me the photograph again.
“A poor apostle’s humble house
Must not be too luxurious;
No stately halls with oaken floor—
It should be decent and no more.
“No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—
No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”
“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:
This property won’t do for you.”