The Vicar of Golyn

In James’s pedant reign, so famed for schooling, There dwelt a Vicar at the church of Golyn; In friar’s weed, like Will Dunbar, he’d preach’d; In friar’s weed the ladies he had fleech’d, For he was fond of amatory fooling.

At golf, or archery, or football match, Like Indian juggler, he the game would catch; At cards, or dice, or chess, he had no equal, With other items, noted in the sequel— A motley priest as e’er the church did hatch.

His cheeks were reddish brown, like colour’d brandy; His neck look’d stiff and starch’d, like modern dandy; His belly round and full: this oily glutton Would gobble at one meal a leg of mutton— A man that’s overfed is most unhandy!

His lips were parch’d with an eternal drouth; His lusty tongue was larger than his mouth; So, when he minced tobacco’s scented quid, The noxious slaver down his bosom slid:— He was a man in figure most uncouth!

To crown his face he had a bottle nose, Which with his chin was like to come to blows, They look’d as if they’d eat up one another: His eye was round and red unlike its brother; His face shaped as full moon we may suppose.

His knees against each other idly knockit, As if they long’d to burst their clumsy socket; Beneath his heavy carcass, worn and spent, His shins were like twin cross-bows when they’re bent; His arms were like a hat when it is cocked.

Now I’ve described his person; for his mind It show’d the very dregs of humankind; Debauch’d with endless round of fraud and folly, His private hours were spent in haunts unholy,— His parallel on earth I scarce may find.

His lying tongue was veil’d in eloquence, Which preach’d up sophistry for common sense; His smile satanic mask’d a wicked heart; His manners shew’d the polish’d man of art, That wins too often the world’s recompense.

His name became a by-word, disrespected— His flock by Satan worried, were neglected! He was, indeed, a very sinful Vicar, Who barter’d holy water for his liquor; Yet he look’d merry aye, and ne’er dejected.

At Beltane-time he made the riggings ring, And songs profane for holy lilts would sing; At Lenten-time a perfect Epicurean, In secret capons with his fish devouring; While his liege paramour did aqua bring.

Indeed, so many ways he tortured fish, Each Lent supplied him with a favourite dish; On Fridays he had pickled salmon ready, And mack’rel from the wives of Aberlady— Our Vicar never went about the bush.

And much he loved to guzzle precious wine, That once had blush’d in vineyards on the Rhine; Fresh fragrant claret too from joyous France; That which he prized was Angiers and Orlance— Liquor on which the gods of Greece might dine.

How the lean curate crouch’d to his command, When like the bust of famine he would stand! With tatter’d gown, and under-raiment rent, Thin jaws, that pictured an eternal Lent, Stretching, to catch a crumb, his skinny hand.

The Vicar too, of tithes and cattle greedy, Would fix his ugly talons in the needy; When the poor cottar sought his humble grave, His fattest cow, for prayers, the priest must have, While of her raploch gray he robb’d the widow.

Ash Wednesday has seen the Vicar meet With drouthy cummers to Malvasie treat, Where he would sit carousing till the Monday, Then go to preach, thinking the day was Sunday, When he could scarcely stand upon his feet.

He pitter-patter’d o’er his rusty rosary, To know his creed one must have had a glossary; He mumbled things divine with so much bawling, His hearers liken’d it to caterwauling— He was a man unworthy shoes or hosiery!

Yet he was deeply read in Aristotle, And might have soar’d, but for the aqua bottle; He knew Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine, Benedict, Bernard, Clement, Cleit, and Lyne; But, then, he went too often to the hotel.

He’d studied history, barbarous and civil; He knew when stars denoted good or evil; Versed in alchymy, he went plodding on, Yet never lit on the philosopher’s stone, While some surmised he’d dealings with the devil.

I’ve said, for sports athletic he was keen, Footing the mazy ball on Golyn-green; At weapon-shaws a regular looker-on, But ere the broil began, our priest was gone To join the gallant’s mask at Christmas e’en.

A man that’s light of head is light of heel, Our Vicar loved to join the Beltane reel, Where he would skipper in the Dirry-duntoun, And hop about just like a pillar wanton; Threading his body spiral as an eel.

He loved, like Will Dunbar, the courtly dance, Where Mistress Musgrave’s smiles did all enhance, Shading with garlands gay her yellow hair:— Her kirtle red, with belt and brooch so fair; For such a lady, who’d not break a lance?

When age the giddy heat of youth is cooling, ’Tis time our wayward passions to be ruling; So thinks the major part of humankind; But to his failings ever darkly blind Remain’d the Vicar of the church of Golyn.

He hated merchants—hated tailors trim; He hated souters, baxters, fleshers grim; He hated brewers—but not tavern-keepers; He hated all his hearers—but the sleepers;— And so he might, because they hated him!

In Mary’s reign he turned Episcopalian, Changing his church and creed to serve his calling; Like weathercock, that waver’d with the wind, To all but pettifogging interest blind, He sneak’d wherever fortune’s rays were falling.

Then came that vice of great abomination, As ever visited a sinful nation; Which set our prince’s pendant pen a-railing: Our Vicar, most unlucky, caught the failing, And to the devil smoked his congregation.

Our Vicar having learn’d this art of smoking, Which (as I’ve said) the parish set a choking, The king, still mindful of his people’s weal, Wrote Tracts against Tobacco and the De’il! Swearing the vice was sinful and provoking.

Then swore the monarch, “This same fumigation “Will, doubtless, bring a curse upon the nation; “I’ll send for Tycho Brahe from Copenhagen; “I’ll send my smoking clergy to the begging— “Those tickle-snouts must mind their flock’s salvation!”

O ye who love to feed your nasal ducts! Chewing tobacco till your stomach pukes, I beg you’ll take a lesson from the Vicar, Behind the door you’d better bend the bicker! What think you of this case, my pretty bucks?

For now-a-days there’s not a little dandy, But wears a box so fanciful and handy, Brimful of Maccaba or Princes Mixture, Tickling his lady, when he’s sitting next her;— And then his bridge-like organ looks so sandy.

Ye fools! when Christmas brings the huge sirloin, And tables groan ere knives in carnage join, Ye do not feel that kitchen-scented flavour, That makes the impatient mouthful sweeter savour— O fy! that for such plant you sport your coin!

Digressions we must leave, and seek the Vicar, Who’s seated snugly o’er his favourite liquor; For once his Holiness has studied deep, For o’er the Litany he’s gone to sleep,— With reverence, I do think he’s getting sicker.

Our hero now, in secret, fed his nose, An ounce of snuff he gobbled at a dose, Till tired, his evil genius took to smoking, And set the neighbourhood again a-choking, Who forthwith sallied like a host of foes.

This deed his frousy neighbours wish’d to hush up, But for a saint who wish’d to nibble fish up, Yclept in prose, assistant and successor, A brainless fellow, but a great professor, Who went post-speed, and told it to the bishop.

The bishop told the king to curry grace, Which pleased so well his heaven-anointed face, He gave a puff as fierce as the sirrocco, Issued his Counterblast against Tobacco; And call’d the Vicar up with little space.

“Item, our pleasure is, on heavy grounds “To purge the church of fumigating hounds; “Therefore, that this said Vicar may not fool us, “In other words, with quirks and quibbling gull us, “We banish him beyond our church’s bounds.”

The Vicar heard his sentence, and was wroth. He did not value much the Lutheran cloth; But, O! to leave the Links and football match, The Golyn cummer’s glee, and merry catch; At leaving these he tarried, and was loth.

Raising his voice to an obstreperous pitch, “Go tell!” cried he, “that ugly Lutheran bitch! “That I will snuff while I have got a nose; “That I will smoke while my stout windpipe blows; “And when I fail, go brand me for a witch!”

The Vicar took a trip beyond the sea, To Calais first, and next to Italie; Again became a servant to the Pope, Yet never gain’d preferment’s dizzy top, But died, despised, among the Lazzaroni.

’Twas said a shape unearthly oft was seen, Playing at football match on Golyn green;— ’Twas said, at dead of night, on Golyn steeple, The Vicar smoked, and hallo’d to the people; Such sights were strange—but yet such sights have been.

THE GUDEWIFE OF TULLOSHILL, AND THE LORD OF LAUDERDALE.

Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o’ Tulloshill.” Old Proverb.