A Cantab visited some friends in the neighbourhood of Whissonset, near
Fakenham, Norfolk, during the life of the late rector of that parish,
who was then nearly ninety, and but little capable of attending to his
duty, but having married a young wife, _she_ would not allow him a
curate, but every Sunday drove him from Fakenham to the church. In
short he was hen-pecked. His clerk kept the village public-house, and
was not over-attentive to his duties. Our Cantab accompanied his
friends to church at the usual time, arriving at which they found
doors close; neither "Vicar or Moses" had arrived, nor did they appear
till half an hour after. Under these circumstances our Cantab threw
off the following epigram:
Like o' Whissonset church
In vain you'll search,
The Lord be thanked for't:
The parson is old,
His wife's a scold,
And the clerk sells beer by the quart.
The people who go
Are but so so,
And but so so are the singers;
They roar in our ears
Like northern bears,
And the devil take the ringers.
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