He can spend his days in visiting the alleys and the slums,
And support his own existence, and his family's, on crumbs.

Come, come, Sir, you are generous. What! eighty pounds a year?
It's a fortune for a Vicar; I am sure he won't refuse.
Why it's sixteen hundred shillings, he will take it, never fear;
For though priests are scarcely beggars, yet they can't afford to choose.
He hasn't got a single vice; I'll guarantee him sound,
And he'll make a crown go farther than an ordinary pound.

And here we have a Bishop; we don't do things by halves;
He requires a roomy palace, he is sturdy, stout and tall.
You can have him as he stands, Sir, with his gaiters and his calves;
Five thousand hires the Bishop, apron, appetite and all.
What? You much prefer the Vicar with his collar and his tie?
And you'd rather pay him extra? Here's your health. Sir; so would I.

* * * * *

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