Receipt To Make A Priest Poem by William Hutton

The place t'ordain him is an hotel;
The proper season--o'er a bottle.
But, ah! what mischief oft commences,
When men get drunk and lose their senses.

Of Sedley, Allison, and Granby,
I'll sing, my friend, and you may stand by:
One a Knight's patent held possession;
The next a Marquis by profession;
The third sold wine, when he could sell it,
So excellent--who could repel it?

Close friends this Merchant, Knight, and Lord;
But closest when sat round the board.
In other places pride might boast,
But here were all distinctions lost;
Or, rather, though in Fortune's spite,
Wine rais'd them to an equal height.

These friends, the pleasure to enhance,
At Nottingham were met by chance.
Al. was at home, both safe and sound;
The Knight was then for London bound;
My Lord 'could only three hours stay,
Then must for Yorkshire shape his way.'

As the kind glass, without much force,
Made a quick circuit round its course,
The joyous spirits became brighter,
Just as the bottle became lighter.

'Dear Allison, I do insist,'
The Marquis cried, and wrung his fist,
'That you give up this wretched trade,
And instantly a priest be made.
I have a living brings in clear
More than two hundred pounds a year.
'Tis in the road I'm now pursuing--
Shall ride with me, and I'll put you in.'

'How can I in a pulpit stand
Till my crown feels the Bishop's hand?'
'Leave that to me,' the Marquis said,
'There shall be no objection made.'

'Alas! what charges must occur!
They're sure to make my purse demur?'

'To cover all expence I'm willing;
It shall not cost my friend a shilling.'

'A pasture rich I might grow fat in;
But can't write Sermons, nor speak Latin.'

'You now object as if afraid;
These points are answer'd soon as made:
Ne'er let a word of Latin fly
While any Latin scholar's by;
But, when he's absent, 'mong the mopes
Let borrow'd Latin fly in tropes.

'Then, as to making Sermons, you
Must tread the road that others do.
The moderns, grown polite and lazy,
Seldom with studied Sermons teaze ye.
For Atterbury, Clarke, and Blair,
With twenty at their elbow, are:
From these cull flowers; leave weeds behind;
You 'll soon the congregation blind.

Or, if from these you fear to quote,
Take authors of inferior note:
This plan, well-manag'd, snug you lie--
To find you out is vain to try.
No more can they your authors mark
Than find a needle in the dark.

Then, in selecting Sermons, you
Only need muster fifty-two;
Which will, in you, like Sol appear,
And make a circuit round the year.
As for detection--fear it not;
A Sermon! Nought's so soon forgot.
A Priest but one grand point pursues--
To teach his flock to pay their dues.'

The bargain made, joy onward hasted;
And Allison the first fruits tasted.

The sky was dark; the hour was late;
The servant bow'd--'The coaches wait.'
Their heads were giddy; room turn'd round;
The street, with guides, our heroes found;
Where, by mistake, at Al.'s approach,
He enter'd into Sedley's coach.
My Lord flew North, nor did well know,
Whether he solus was or no.
Al. too thought he was pointing North
After a benefice of worth;
But his gay vision ne'er was undone,
Till he was set down safe in London.

He gone, the living would not stay;
But took, like him, a different way.
The whole to one delusion turn'd,
And Al. in his dull wine-vault mourn'd.