Wrote Upon The Poem by James Wilson Claudero

Clap your Hands, ye People all
In Cummingston who dwell;
Macdebit's dead, whose holy Tricks
Will sink his Soul to &wblank;:
No more will he your Kirk profane,
Nor more with Irish Cant,
Deceive the poor Enthusiasts
Of the Church Militant.
From the Original he taught,
With ever-puzling Greek,
It edify'd Believers much
To hear him learn'dly speak;
Pungent and Cogent Arguments
His Doctrine did enforce;
And very oft he Climax us'd
To scale Heav'n's Walls perforce.
With Latin, Hebrew, Syriac,
And much Scholastic Buff,
He spun out Lectures tedious,
While Hearers took a Snuff.
Revenge, his noted Character,
His Sermons did compose:
The sacred Text he still explain'd
To strike against his Foes.
None of his Parish ever durst
A Sacrament request,
Till they of Mutton, Hens, or Ducks
Sent him a handsome Feast:
Some obstinate indeed there were,
Refus'd such Perquisite,
Whose Children unbaptiz'd remain,
For being impolite.
A Practice strange, yet very true,
A Scandal to the Band,
That Heathenism be allowed
Into a Christian Land.
Men for Women ripe enough,
And Women ripe for Men,
Desirous much to be baptiz'd,
Unchristen'd there remain.
In holy Things he always was
A most mysterious Quack:
His Session too he slyly chose,
A most illit'rate Pack,
Who to his Will did ay conform,
Not knowing his Design.
The Poor he robbed many Ways,
Nor durst they ere repine;
Collections, Mortcloth, and Buttock-mail
Voraciously he stole;
President, Clerk, and Treas'rer was,
None durst his Pow'r controul;
A Quack in Physick too he was,
And trick'd the People sore;
Meg Low, and many more, can tell
How he was paid therefor.
His Patients he was wont to fright
With Death, Judgment, and Hell;
Next he apply'd his Specifick,
And purg'd their Purses well.
His Tricks and Querks too tedious,
I cannot here relate:
He seem'd a Saint, tho' Hypocrite,
A Villain consummate.
But, while I wrote, there did arrive
A Post with mighty Speed,
Told me the Rogue is still alive,
And not among the Dead:
The heavy News I did receive
Made me fling by my Quill,
My Joy it into Sorrow turn'd,
I sat and wept my fill.
Oh Cummingston! I cry'd aloud,
May Comfort come to thee,
May Heav'n thy Sorrows shortly end,
From Priestcraft make thee free.