Tom Raban

The curate and churchwarden,
And eke exciseman too,
Have treated poor Tom Raban
As if he was a Jew.

For they have sent him packing,
No more in church to work,
Whatever may be lacking;
As if he was a Turk.

Thus carry they the farce on,
Which is great cause of grief,
Until that Page the parson
Turn over a new leaf.

Thus sings the muse, and though her fav'rite cue
Is fiction, yet her song is sometimes true.