FOR his religion it was fit

To match his learning and his wit:

Twas Presbyterian true blue;

For he was of that stubborn crew

Of errant saints, whom all men grant

To be the true Church militant;

Such as do build their faith upon

The holy text of pike and gun;

Decide all controversies by

Infallible artillery,

And prove their doctrine orthodox,

By apostolic blows and knocks;

Call fire, and sword, and desolation,

A godly, thorough reformation.

Which always must be carried on,

And still be doing, never done;

As if religion were intended

For nothing else but to be mended;

A sect whose chief devotion lies

In odd perverse antipathies;

In falling out with that or this,

And finding somewhat still amiss;

More peevish, cross, and splenetic,

That with more care keep holy-day

The wrong, than others the right way;

Compound for sins they are inclin’d to,

By damning those they have no mind to;

Still so perverse and opposite,

As if they worshipped God for spite;

The self-same thing they will abhor

One way, and long another for;

Free-will they one way disavow,

Another, nothing else allow;

All piety consists therein

In them, in other men all sin;

Rather than fail, they will defy

That which they love most tenderly;

Quarrel with minc’d pies, and disparage

Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge;

Fat pig and goose itself oppose,

And blaspheme custard through the nose.