The Telescope

Poetry.
From the Evening Gazette.
The Loud Call,
OR
Disinterested Parson.

There liv'd a Parson, as we're told,
Out when, or where we know not,
Who oft his snoring flock would scold,
Threat'ning that they to Heav'n should go not,
But rather down to hell be hurl'd
If they would not abjure the world
And count as dross its filthy mammon,
GOLD.

Chanc'd at length this godly wight
Who studiously fought the christian fight,
To receive a louder call:
Tho' the stipend was a trifle more low
Who plac'd in wealth so little store.
His had no weight you know at all!
'Twas not the case--oh no--
'Twas the Lord commanded--
Tho' 'twas hard to go away:
He refuse the Lord's to obey,
Careless servant branded
So he must go.

Sabbath now arriv'd,
Simple folks contriv'd
Their Priest's farewell:
Long, in righteous strain,
From darling sins refrain,
And in sweet concord dwell:
To hate the world, in holy ways be bold
And shun the soul's seducer, glit'ring Gold.

The service o'er,
Before the door
The parish gentry gather'd round;
Smiling, the good man came among them,
Seiz'd on their offer'd hands, and wrung them:
'A saint on earth,' the grannies cried,
Then roll'd their eyeballs up, and sigh'd
And dropp'd their farewell curtsies to the ground.

Behind the rest.
To bid the priest good-bye,
In nature's sooty jacket drest,
Old Cesar came--a wag and mighty sly.
Bowing, the stick of ebony began
A confab with the gold despising man:

'Ah! how you good man parson do?
I hope he find him berry well:'
'Well, Cesar, well, and how do you?'
'Missa, Cesar hardly tell;
'Tis good long twenty year,
Wid you we worshis here,
And now he sorry from you frock you go:'
'Ah! honest Cesar, yes, it must be so;
'Tis sorry, too,
That I am forc'd away;
But then, you know, 'twould never do,
'The Lord's loud call' for me to disobey.'

'Who? massa, who, you say?
'De Lord call you away?
Massa, how many poun' a year,
De people pays for preaching here?'
'Two hundred'--'toder place gib any more?'
'Why--Cesar--yes--I think--they offer FOUR,'
'Ah! massa, maybe 'tis de Lord who call,
But don you tink more loud you let him bawl,
And call & call, till all be blue, [bawl,]
'Fore you come back from four to two?
De Lord, he hallo till he dumb,
'Fore massa parson ebber come.

CARLO.