BOPEEP, OR THE JERKING PARSON Catechising his MAID;  
A pleasant BALLAD to the Tune of Notcrof's Delight.  

When Oliver that Imp of Mars  
did rule the English land,  
And London trembled at his force  
from Algate to the strand;  
Disorders did there  
Most frequent appear,  
As by this one you'll understand.   

There was a Parson (so 'tis said)  
a Crafty one I wot,  
Who in his house a pretty maid  
for exercise had got:  
Upon every fault  
She did, she was brought  
Coram nobis, and went to the pot.   

He catechised early and late,  
and to her duty firked her,  
Well could he preach, well could he prate,  
for he's an able jerker:  
Before and behind  
'twixt water and wind  
He fetched her up stiffly, & yerked her.   

The man was a man of conscience,  
and guided by the spirit  
To handle the flesh of the wench,  
according to her merit:  
The flesh being proud,  
Though sh'e were but a dowd,  
He knew the way well how to curried.   

Reproof with a cudgel breaks bones,  
and other weapon's gash;  
A rod is a tool for the nonce,  
that gives the gentle slash:  
The girl was but young,  
And shame ties her tongue,  
Whilst he brings her under the lash.   

For breaking of commandments,  
of which there was no lack,  
She's punished to all intents  
by the little man in black.  
Though ne'er so demure,  
Her coats fly up sure  
As she hath a coat to her back.   

When table was not rubbed bright  
(which handkerchief did try)  
Or any thing not set to right,  
belongs to housewifery;  
He took up her smock,  
And he lashed her nock,  
And corrected her zealously.   

Sabbath-neglects he's sure to pay,  
though to a Sabbath breach;  
For prating once whilst he did pray,  
he fetched up the poor wretch:  
And he set the fool  
on the penitent stool,  
Whilst he a private Lecture preached.   

One time above all was very sad,  
(upon some small omission.)  
The custom of women than she had,  
(a pitiful condition)  
Yet he administers  
The usual glisters;  
For he's her ghostly physician.   

Although she cry out, and lament,  
though down she falls, and knelt,  
Yet he knows not how to releat,  
and no compassion feels:  
For it was his use  
To take no excuse,  
Till he saw blood run down her heels.   

SOme question the man's discretion  
to meddle thus with's maid,  
And think it a forward passion,  
that put him on this trade:  
It being's wif'es place;  
Since Moll, Peg, and Grace  
By Mistress' hand should be paid.   

True, had his wife been very young,  
a brave and lusty pudge,  
In hand as able as in tongue,  
he need not played the drudge.  
But sh●'s very old,  
As I have been told,  
Which made the man to the work trudge.   

Wherefore to spare his consorts arm,  
and her two pair of eyes,  
Which could have done the wench no harm;  
He t'execution hies.  
With vigorous might  
And a nimble sight  
To look babies in the maid's thighs.   

But the wicked do fleer and mock,  
and tauntingly give out,  
The Parson sure is a smell-smock:  
now fie, ungodly rout,  
Did he but hear,  
he'd teach you to jeer,  
And indite you all t'other bout.   

Indeed, I confess, were his tail  
as hot as his head the while;  
With a wench he'd play truss a fail,  
soon as any within a mile:  
But he of all sure  
Can't the smock endure,  
'Bout surplice he keeps such a coil.   

If Babylon's whore herself  
should come a cross his way,  
Be she ne'er so gallant. the elf  
would trounce her fine array.  
For when he is vexed  
And a breech is his text,  
he'll be sure to claw it away.   

Every stroke he aimed aright  
the wench he never missed her.  
He laid on blows with all his might,  
nor used her like a sister:  
His arm had a spring,  
And so freely did fling,  
That every jerk raised a blister.   

As the devil in his wild fits  
hug'd the witch, so he did hug her  
He stung her with unlucky hits:  
I shall not speak it in mugger,  
He hath got the odds  
Of westminster rods,  
Though managed by black Jack Bugger.   

He's a friend of the Kings he brags,  
as backfriend to all rumps;  
he'd tawed Bum politic to jags.  
and put 'em to their trumps:  
Hewsons' strap, Pride's sling,  
Could not give the ding  
As his rod, which he wore to the stumps.   

Let none doubt the truth of this story,  
although it seem absurd:  
Much truer it is then John Dory,  
for it is upon record:  
When were't not for Pack,  
The Presbyter Jack  
Had paid for his peeping, I heard.   

A trial there was in guild-hall,  
I shall not, readers, jobe ye;  
Court set, the maid swore pointblank; all  
the people shouted, Ho boy!  
he was in a shrape,  
he could hardly scape,  
For tickling th' Apocryphal Toby.   

Her dying mother's oath came in,  
which witnessed the same;  
His wife's oath though, if not from sin,  
yet saved him from the shame:  
For the parish Pope  
Can give himself scope  
To cog a die in an ill game.   

One word to the vestry let me speak,  
one word, I say, or twain,  
Ere my discourse I off do break.  
for parson whipsters gain,  
That you him prefer  
To be Lecturer  
To London-maids in Birchen-lane.    

Printed for the Bellman of ALGATE by order of the Ward.