Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/145

 Now at a pic-nic, 'mid fair golden curls,
 * Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly;

A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;
 * And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt praisingly.
 * But suddenly declines to play at all in it—
 * The curate-fiend has come to take a ball in it!

Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed
 * From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,

He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,
 * In manner anything but hierarchical—
 * He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—
 * That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it!

At length he gave a charge, and spake this word,
 * "Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;

To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd;
 * What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may."
 * He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,
 * The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.