GERD.
You?
Ay, but not the parson! Swift
From the peak my falcon flew,
Fiercely down the fells he hied him,
He was bitted and saddled too,
Through the nightfall blast he hiss’d,
And a man was set astride him,
’Twas the parson, ’twas the priest!
Now the valley church is bare,
Lock and bar are bolted there;
Ugly-church’s day is past;
Mine shall get its due at last.
There the priest stands, tall and strong;
Snowy surplice swathes his flank,
Woven of winter’s drip and dank,
If you’d see him, come along;
Parish-church is bare and blank;
M y priest has so brave a song,
That the whole earth rings to hear it.