The Rival Curates

List while the poet trolls     Of MR. CLAYTON HOOPER,     Who had a cure of souls     At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.     He lived on curds and whey,     And daily sang their praises,     And then he'd go and play     With buttercups and daisies.     Wild croquet HOOPER banned,     And all the sports of Mammon,     He warred with cribbage, and     He exorcised backgammon.     His helmet was a glance     That spoke of holy gladness;     A saintly smile his lance;     His shield a tear of sadness.     His Vicar smiled to see     This armour on him buckled:     With pardonable glee     He blessed himself and chuckled.     "In mildness to abound     My curate's sole design is;     In all the country round     There's none so mild as mine is!"     And HOOPER, disinclined     His trumpet to be blowing,     Yet didn't think you'd find     A milder curate going.     A friend arrived one day     At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,     And in this shameful way     He spoke to Mr. HOOPER:     "You think your famous name     For mildness can't be shaken,     That none can blot your fame     But, HOOPER, you're mistaken!     "Your mind is not as blank     As that of HOPLEY PORTER,     Who holds a curate's rank     At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.     "HE plays the airy flute,     And looks depressed and blighted,     Doves round about him 'toot,'     And lambkins dance delighted.     "HE labours more than you     At worsted work, and frames it;     In old maids' albums, too,     Sticks seaweed yes, and names it!"     The tempter said his say,     Which pierced him like a needle     He summoned straight away     His sexton and his beadle.     (These men were men who could     Hold liberal opinions:     On Sundays they were good     On week-days they were minions.)     "To HOPLEY PORTER go,     Your fare I will afford you     Deal him a deadly blow,     And blessings shall reward you.     "But stay I do not like     Undue assassination,     And so before you strike,     Make this communication:     "I'll give him this one chance     If he'll more gaily bear him,     Play croquet, smoke, and dance,     I willingly will spare him."     They went, those minions true,     To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,     And told their errand to     The REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER.     "What?" said that reverend gent,     "Dance through my hours of leisure?     Smoke? bathe myself with scent?     Play croquet? Oh, with pleasure!     "Wear all my hair in curl?     Stand at my door and wink so     At every passing girl?     My brothers, I should think so!     "For years I've longed for some     Excuse for this revulsion:     Now that excuse has come     I do it on compulsion!!!"     He smoked and winked away     This REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER     The deuce there was to pay     At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.     And HOOPER holds his ground,     In mildness daily growing     They think him, all around,     The mildest curate going.