The Reverend Simon Magus
A RICH advowson, highly prized,For private sale was advertised;And many a parson made a bid;The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.
He sought the agent’s: “Agent, IHave come prepared at once to buy(If your demand is not too big)The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”
“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—The snuggest vicarage on earth;No sort of duty (so I hear),And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
“If on the price we should agree,The living soon will vacant be;The good incumbent’s ninety five,And cannot very long survive.
“See—here’s his photograph—you see,He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me!Poor soul!” said SIMON. “His deceaseWould be a merciful release!”
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—The agent blew his nose and winked—And poked the parson’s ribs in play—It was that agent’s vulgar way.
The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieveThis light demeanour to perceive;It’s scarcely comme il faut, I think:Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—Your mission is to sell the soulsOf human sheep and human kidsTo that divine who highest bids.
“Do well in this, and on your headUnnumbered honours will be shed.”The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,I have been doing very well.”
“You should,” said SIMON, “at your age;But now about the parsonage.How many rooms does it contain?Show me the photograph again.
“A poor apostle’s humble houseMust not be too luxurious;No stately halls with oaken floor—It should be decent and no more.
“No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:This property won’t do for you.”
“All these about the house you’ll find.”—“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;I’ll manage to submit to theseLuxurious superfluities.
“A clergyman who does not shirkThe various calls of Christian work,Will have no leisure to employThese ‘common forms’ of worldly joy.
“To preach three times on Sabbath days—To wean the lost from wicked ways—The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—The poor to feed with meat and bread;
“These are the various wholesome waysIn which I’ll spend my nights and days:My zeal will have no time to coolAt croquet, archery, or pool.”
The agent said, “From what I hear,This living will not suit, I fear—There are no poor, no sick at all;For services there is no call.”
The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me!Then there is no ‘society’?—I mean, of course, no sinners thereWhose souls will be my special care?”
The cunning agent shook his head,“No, none—except”—(the agent said)—“The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B.,The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D.
“But you will not be quite alone,For though they’ve chaplains of their own,Of course this noble well-bred clanReceive the parish clergyman.”
“Oh, silence, sir!” said SIMON M.,“Dukes—Earls! What should I care for them?These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!”“Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!”
“Yet I might show these men of birthThe hollowness of rank on earth.”The agent answered, “Very true—But I should not, if I were you.”
“Who sells this rich advowson, pray?”The agent winked—it was his way—“His name is HART; ’twixt me and you,He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!”
“A Jew?” said SIMON, “happy find!I purchase this advowson, mind.My life shall be devoted toConverting that unhappy Jew!”