HICKLEDY-PICKLEDY:  
OR, The Yorkshire Curates Complaint.  
To the Tune of Alas, poor Scholar, etc.  

HUsh, Poetasters, that abuse  
Apollo, and blaspheme the Muse;  
That (like the Senator of worth)  
Conceive, and yet bring nothing forth:  
Or, like that Lyon-seeming Ass,  
Who (in the name of Hudibras)  
Fool of his penny hath beguiled,  
And played at Hot-cockles with Wild:  
Or like those Pamphleteers, who (last Week)  
Canted in tone of Prynne and Bastwick;  
Filling the Change with false Tradition  
Of Chelmsford's Vicar's Circumcision,  
Who lost his Tithes, (as Story tells)  
For he was Guelt of nothing else.   

Nor need we Gouty Doctor's Tongue,  
Who got a Pars'nage for a Song;  
Chirping in phrase of Robert Wisdom,  
But since the first of August is dumb:  
Whose Antler fair as Chimny-stock,  
Whose Cheeks as smooth as Punching-block;  
Whose Shanks like Dog-horse Farsie-legs,  
Whose Teeth like Crispin's Holly-pegs,  
And Leather-ears, were all Retainers  
To the Right Worshipful Cordwainers:  
And besides this, his Noping Pate  
That speaks him famous Huson's Mate,  
(This in the Church, that in the State,  
Did Text as well as Shoes translate)  
We scorn. Now fie of his unsavoury Drolls,  
With which he Flie-blowed Bumpkins Souls.   

But if the virtue of Small-Beer,  
Christening, and Twennty Marks a year,  
Can brain with Fancy rich inspire,  
And teach an Ass to tune a Lyre,  
Who felt for Poetry, but missed her,  
Laying his Clutches on her Sister  
Height Poverty: and since that time,  
Borrowed in Prose, and Paid in Rhyme:  
Then listen, Lordlings, unto one  
At Gossip yclept Sir John;  
Who is no better nor no worse  
Than Lazy Doctor's Stalking-horse;  
Tne Lazy Priest, who (like to Cripple)  
Supports each Arm with Crutch of Steeple;  
And (when his crazy bulk grows sick)  
Stumbles into a Bishopric.  
Religious man! who more condoles  
The want of Tithes, than loss of Souls;  
And when both Men and Corn are mown,  
Seeks not God's Harvest, but his own:  
Who plays with Simoniack Doxy,  
And in the Pulpit speaks by Proxy;  
Whilst Curate Poor, that bears the heat  
Of Morning, and the Evening sweat;  
And doth his Congregation foster  
With ‛ Postles Creed, and Pater Noster;  
Dispensing (in these times of dotage)  
That which blind Sectaries call Pottage;  
Is Slave to Avaricious Master,  
For Rector rides on back of Pastor.   

Had I been Presbyter, perhaps  
I might have washed my Zealous Chaps  
With blood of Grape, and left the County  
To taste th' unconstant City's Bounty;  
And (as to Calamy it happens)  
Been strange Decoy-bird to dead Capons.  
Thus might I graze (like Royal Beast)  
And never taste the Wiseman's Feast:  
But tedious is the Curate's way,  
For he must Fast as well as Pray:  
But if the Parliament will smother  
One Priest with Cures, and starve another,  
The Tottering Clergy must submit  
To Presbyter or Jesuit:  
For Liturgy will lose her Glory  
'Twixt Mass-book and the Directory.   
By T. P.