LLANDISILIO HOTEL,
SOUTH WALES.
Fam’d ancient South Britain gave birth
To the story my muse means to tell,
Hear it, neighbours, who live on this earth,
And in snug habitations do dwell;
A parson, his wife, son, and Jew,
Drove in by disastrous weather,
A poet pedestrian too,
Pig’d in a mud hut all together.
To supper the quizzes sat down,
The parson eat rabbits, sans legs,
The poet mus’d over bread brown,
The Jew bolted bacon and eggs;
Hot and new from the tub came their ale,
As to spirits they’d none but their own,
Yet each man told his mirth-moving tale,
And the parson’s wife sung Bobbing Joan.
A cradle constructed of wood,
Was prepar’d for the poet to rest,
When the man of mosaical blood
Petition’d to have half the nest;
But Smouch was no chum to his mind,
So the poet said “Smouch, d’ye see,
“Two cocks of a different kind
“In the same roost can never agree.”
First the parson’s wife got into bed,
And close to the wall plac’d her side,
Then the parson, by jealousy led,
Laid his hand o’er the quim of his bride;
But fearing a cross o’ the breed,
The son kept apart th’ unbeliever,
Lest the tube which pass’d Abraham’s seed,
Shou’d enter his MOTHER’S receiver.
Now it seems in the dead of the night,
The parson libidinous grew,
So he nudg’d his fond wife to lie right,
That he might have a family screw;
First having before meat said grace,
He fell too with an appetite craving,
Soon he wriggl’d the Jew from his place,
And bare-bum’d on the floor laid him raving.
“By the coming Messiah,” said Smouch,
“What is all this disturbance about?
“As I was asleep in my couch,
“For what reason I was now kick’d out?
“Master Parson, pray how cou’d you rob
“A poor pedlar of rest and repose?
“You knew there won’t room for the job,
“Yet must do it plump under my nose.”
Tag, the Poet, heard all that had pass’d,
Found the Parson was winding his clock,
There lay he like a sheep when ’tis cast,
While with laughter his cradle did rock;
“Have you broke,” said he, “Smouchy, your bones?
“Do you oft get such damnable knocks?”
“No,” said Smouch, “but the case for my stones
“Is very much pruised by my pox.[3]”
When for room roar’d out Moses in vain,
All the family sham’d fast asleep,
So up the starv’d Jew got again,
And took thro’ the bed-curtains a peep;
The Parson was on his gray mare,
Smouch saw his a—e nod, wag, and waddle,
“Master Parson,” said he, “have a care,
“Or, by G-d, you’ll be thrown off the “saddle.”
While the Parson did Scripture fulfil,
For his text was increase, multiply,
The Poet lay silent and still,
Full of vigour, and ready to fly;
Then his line Alexandrin of love
He put into his hostess’s hand,
Which she willingly straight did remove
To the spot where ’twas properly scan’d.
By swarms of black jumpers, call’d fleas,
All this party were damnably bit,
The priest’s shirt, and his wife’s clean chemise,
The filthy black jumpers b-s—t;
And pending the Parson’s embrace,
Till the critical minute had come,
The fleas were not shook from their place,
Till they’d taken blood tythe of his bum.
Aurora, at dawning of day,
Peep’d into the mansion of mud,
Asses set up their ominous bray,
Ducks and geese quack’d and cackl’d for food;
The cock crow’d and treaded the hen,
The boar got a-back of the sow,
Lewd goats shag’d again and again,
And the bull stuck it into the cow.
Then the Jew, with his box, did depart,
And the Poet took leave of his crib,
But the Parson, unwilling to start,
Took another sly st—ke at his rib;
If you think, then, my tale worth a toast,
As we’ve here no parsonical prig,
I’ll bumper life’s pleasure, and boast
The Parson, his wife, the goat’s fig.
[3] The box he carried was half pushed under the bed, on the corner of which he fell.