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The Enragd Spectre
or the Doctor in Distress
a Ballad
To the Tune of the unfortunate Miss Bayley
1
Great Tom had part struck twelve oclock,
The Churchmen all were snoring,
Save one, who not yet gone to bed,
one the Plummers his was boring,
When, dire to tell, as the doctor stirrd the Fire sir,
Plump, down the Chimney droptd, the Spectre of a Spire Sir.
Oh the unlucky unlucky Prebendary.
2
The doctor turnd as white as milk,
The Spire stood on the floor Sir,
And presently it Pas'd between,
the Doctor & the door, sir,
The weathercock, it waggd its Tail, & then in rage began Sir
Why, dont you, hang yourself, your a very naughty man Sir
oh &c.
3
Six hundred years & more we were stood,
The Glory of the minster
Good Alexander [indecipherable] there,
While maud was yet a Spinster,
Bolt upright, my Mate & I, have Stood in wind & Rain Sir
no Fabric clerk, for fourscore years, heard Either spire Complain Sir
oh &c.
4
Now why your folks have pulld us down,
you cannot tell the reason,
unless perchance they wisely thought,
Old Lead was in high Season,
Shame, on those, holy men, who love dilapidation
Nay Sure by will because the score, & outcast deserve & will ensure the censure of the Nation
oh &c.
5
Some say that Timber Tiles & Stones,
are all that Fabric means sir,
& that we Spires, all clothd in Lead,
were no parts of the minster
Fie, on these subtilties, in such a holy Cause Sir
the devil's not so cunning as, some doctors of the Laws are no fox is half so' subtile.