The Ant Poem by William Hutton

Perhaps my verse you'll nothing call,
Because, it seems, my title's small.
To ministers I recommend
That they should ne'er their clerks offend.
The smallest animal we know
May soon become a dreadful foe.
Nor ought a priest to speak too loud,
Lest he should wake the sleeping crowd.

Exalted by the Muse, shall shine
A reverend and a fat Divine;
For if in bulk he shall excel
He'll fit a pulpit twice as well;
And if he runs to twenty stone,
I've stuff enough to work upon.

Mild was his temper, you might swear,
As men of belly often are;
Was gently through church trammels led,
He fed his flock--himself he fed;
Though, of the two, it is confess'd,
The reverend Doctor throve the best.

His congregation us'd to tell,
His sermons he conducted well;
But this small evil lay on hand--
To preach them, he was forc'd to stand:
This prov'd a double duty straight,
Because he carried double weight;
For two legs only was his store,
But twenty stone demanded four.

To remedy this foul defect,
His people, out of pure respect,
As they could hear what he should say,
Whether he stood, or sat, or lay,
('Twas not his posture edify'd,
But what he said must be their guide)
A stool they in the pulpit set,
And bass, to raise him higher yet.

This apparatus, all made good,
He seem'd as high as if he stood.
How much it must a parson please,
When people shall contrive his ease!

Thus all went well; from evil freed,
The shepherd and his flock agreed.
Perhaps some little things occurr'd,
Too small to introduce a word;
As heavy bodies, we all know,
Press hard upon the parts below;
So his, which on the bass did rest,
In summer, was with heat oppress'd;
But his own fore-sight could, with ease,
Remove a dozen ills like these.
His breeches loosen'd, down they slid,
And not a soul knew what he did,
That underneath fresh air might go,
To cool the parts which lie below;
Besides, fresh air, he might suppose,
Becomes a sweet'ner where it goes.

And, pray, what is't to you or me
Where any parson's breeches be?
Or, should they hang about his heels,
It is not you, but he, who feels;
Nay, e'en to pull them off was naught,
The evil lies in being caught.

Our worthy Priest, as some divine,
Drank deepish of the vestry wine,
And in no moment cast an eye
Upon his clerk, who stood close by;
But, while the wine did merry pass,
Ne'er once said, 'Roger, take a glass.'
Why did he leave him in the lurch,
For he alone, of all the church,
Was well appriz'd of little arts,
With which he cool'd his nether parts.
Roger must disappointed be,
Who long'd for wine as well as he.

'Such meanness he with rage should spurn,
He'd trick the Doctor in his turn.'

A nest of ants he took from grass,
And hid them in the parson's bass;
Both old, and eggs, and great, and small,
He found new dwellings for them all.
How much an ant must be elated,
When to a pulpit he's translated!
Nor much expences would he lack;
He was already dress'd in black;
And could a flock instruct at least,
As well as here and there a priest.

The day was hot, the moisture crept,
While half the congregation slept;
The parson preach'd, his breeches down,
And copious sweat, from foot to crown,
As plenteous drew the exhalation,
Arising from the congregation.

The little ants grew tir'd of home,
Like 'prentice lads, on Sunday roam.
What could a bulky parson do;
The liquor stood at eighty two.
He labour'd hard, 'twixt heat and fear,
And felt a tickling, God knows where.
He scratch'd and preach'd, and scratch'd again.
Thy scratching, Doctor, 's adll in vain,
For what man can attempt to stand
Against a troop with single hand?

The cruel strife was hard and long;
Employ'd his fingers, check'd his tongue,
He cast a wildish look around,
But still the enemy gain'd ground;
Could not conceive whence rose the pest;
With energy he this express'd;
'Though gospel from my tongue may flow,
'Yet sure the devil lies below.'

This wak'd the congregation quite,
No more he said--no more I'll write.