I'm a very knowing prig,
With my laced coat and wig,
Though they say I am surly and bearish;
Sure I look a might man,
When I flourish my rattan,
To fright the little boys,
Who in church-time make a noise,
Because I'm beadle of the Parish.
Here and there,—every where?
Hollo now,—What's the row?
Fine to do,—Who are you?
Why, zounds, I'm the Beadle of the Parish.
Whenever I come nigh,
How I make the beggars fly,
My looks are so angry and scarish,
Like other city folks,
I do business in the stocks.
That whate'er is lost I tell,
For you know I bear the bell,
Because I'm the Beadle of the Parish,
Noise and clatter,—What's the matter?
Holla, fellow—You are mellow,
Fine to do,—don't you see,
Why, zounds—I'm the Beadle of the Parish.
I'm an officer, don't laugh,
But indeed I'm on the staff,
And all sax I do pretty fairish;
On a Sunday strut about,
And I keep the rubble out,—
The Church-wardens march before,
Just to open the pew door,
Because I am Beadle of the Parish,
Puff away,—merry day,
Drink about,—See it out,
There will be—snacks for me,
Because I'm the Beadle of the Parish.

FINIS.