Уильям Швенк Гилберт (William Schwenck Gilbert)

The Bab Ballads. The Rival Curates

List while the poet trolls
   Of Mr. Clayton Hooper,
Who had a cure of souls
   At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.

He lived on curds and whey,
   And daily sang their praises,
And then he’d go and play
   With buttercups and daisies.

Wild croquêt Hooper banned,
   And all the sports of Mammon,
He warred with cribbage, and
   He exorcised backgammon.

His helmet was a glance
   That spoke of holy gladness;
A saintly smile his lance;
   His shield a tear of sadness.

His Vicar smiled to see
   This armour on him buckled:
With pardonable glee
   He blessed himself and chuckled.

“In mildness to abound
   My curate’s sole design is;
In all the country round
   There’s none so mild as mine is!”

And Hooper, disinclined
   His trumpet to be blowing,
Yet didn’t think you’d find
   A milder curate going.

A friend arrived one day
   At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,
And in this shameful way
   He spoke to Mr. Hooper:

“You think your famous name
   For mildness can’t be shaken,
That none can blot your fame—
   But, Hooper, you’re mistaken!

“Your mind is not as blank
   As that of Hopley Porter,
Who holds a curate’s rank
   At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

“He plays the airy flute,
   And looks depressed and blighted,
Doves round about him ‘toot,’
   And lambkins dance delighted.

“He labours more than you
   At worsted work, and frames it;
In old maids’ albums, too,
   Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!”

The tempter said his say,
   Which pierced him like a needle—
He summoned straight away
   His sexton and his beadle.

(These men were men who could
   Hold liberal opinions:
On Sundays they were good—
   On week-days they were minions.)

“To Hopley Porter go,
   Your fare I will afford you—
Deal him a deadly blow,
   And blessings shall reward you.

“But stay—I do not like
   Undue assassination,
And so before you strike,
   Make this communication:

“I’ll give him this one chance—
   If he’ll more gaily bear him,
Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,
   I willingly will spare him.”

They went, those minions true,
   To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,
And told their errand to
   The Reverend Hopley Porter.

“What?” said that reverend gent,
   “Dance through my hours of leisure?
Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—
   Play croquêt?  Oh, with pleasure!

“Wear all my hair in curl?
   Stand at my door and wink—so—
At every passing girl?
   My brothers, I should think so!

“For years I’ve longed for some
   Excuse for this revulsion:
Now that excuse has come—
   I do it on compulsion!!!”

He smoked and winked away—
   This Reverend Hopley Porter—
The deuce there was to pay
   At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

And Hooper holds his ground,
   In mildness daily growing—
They think him, all around,
   The mildest curate going.

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