The Fairy Curate
ONCE a fairyLight and airyMarried with a mortal;Men, however,Never, neverPass the fairy portal.Slyly stealing,She to EalingMade a daily journey;There she found him,Clients round him(He was an attorney).
Long they tarried,Then they married.When the ceremonyOnce was ended,Off they wendedOn their moon of honey.Twelvemonth, maybe,Saw a baby(Friends performed an orgie).Much they prized him,And baptized himBy the name of GEORGIE.
GEORGIE grew up;Then he flew upTo his fairy mother.Happy meeting—Pleasant greeting—Kissing one another.“Choose a callingMost enthralling,I sincerely urge ye.”“Mother,” said he(Rev’rence made he),“I would join the clergy.
“Give permissionIn addition—Pa will let me do it:There’s a livingIn his giving—He’ll appoint me to it.Dreams of coff’ring,Easter off’ring,Tithe and rent and pew-rate,So inflame me(Do not blame me),That I’ll be a curate.”
She, with pleasure,Said, “My treasure,’T is my wish precisely.Do your duty,There’s a beauty;You have chosen wisely.Tell your fatherI would ratherAs a churchman rank you.You, in clover,I’ll watch over.”GEORGIE said, “Oh, thank you!”
GEORGIE scudded,Went and studied,Made all preparations,And with credit(Though he said it)Passed examinations.(Do not quarrelWith him, moral,Scrupulous digestions—’Twas his mother,And no other,Answered all the questions.)
Time proceeded;Little neededGEORGIE admonition:He, elated,VindicatedClergyman’s position.People round himAlways found himPlain and unpretending;Kindly teaching,Plainly preaching,All his money lending.
So the fairy,Wise and wary,Felt no sorrow rising—No occasionFor persuasion,Warning, or advising.He, resumingFairy pluming(That’s not English, is it?)Oft would fly up,To the sky up,Pay mamma a visit.
Time progressing,GEORGIE’S blessingGrew more Ritualistic—Popish scandals,Tonsures—sandals—Genuflections mystic;Gushing meetings—Bosom-beatings—Heavenly ecstatics—Broidered spencers—Copes and censers—Rochets and dalmatics.
This quandaryVexed the fairy—Flew she down to Ealing.“GEORGIE, stop it!Pray you, drop it;Hark to my appealing:To this foolishPapal rule-ishTwaddle put an ending;This a swerve isFrom our ServicePlain and unpretending.”
He, replying,Answered, sighing,Hawing, hemming, humming,“It’s a pity—They’re so pritty;Yet in mode becoming,Mother tender,I’ll surrender—I’ll be unaffected—”But his BishopInto his shopEntered unexpected!
“Who is this, sir,—Ballet miss, sir?”Said the Bishop coldly.“’T is my mother,And no other,”GEORGIE answered boldly.“Go along, sir!You are wrong, sir;You have years in plenty,While this hussy(Gracious mussy!)Isn’t two and twenty!”
(Fairies cleverNever, neverGrow in visage older;And the fairy,All unwary,Leant upon his shoulder!)Bishop grieved him,Disbelieved him;GEORGE the point grew warm on;Changed religion,Like a pigeon, 452And became a Mormon!