What the Jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect:-

I

Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! 
Blessedest Thursday’s the fat of the week. 
Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough,
Stinking and savoury, smug and gruff,
Take the church-road, for the bell’s due chime
Gives us the summons—­’tis sermon-time!

II

Boh, here’s Barnabas!  Job, that’s you? 
Up stumps Solomon—­bustling too? 
Shame, man! greedy beyond your years
To handsel the bishop’s shaving-shears? 
Fair play’s a jewel!  Leave friends in the lurch? 10
Stand on a line ere you start for the church!

III

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie,
Rats in a hamper, swine in a stye,
Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve,
Worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve. 
Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs
And buzz for the bishop—­here he comes.

IV

Bow, wow, wow—­a bone for the dog! 
I liken his Grace to an acorned hog. 20
What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass,
To help and handle my lord’s hour-glass! 
Didst ever behold so lithe a chine? 
His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine.

V

Aaron’s asleep—­shove hip to haunch,
Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch! 
Look at the purse with the tassel and knob
And the gown with the angel and thingumbob! 
What’s he at, quotha? reading his text! 
Now you’ve his curtsey—­and what comes next? 30

VI

See to our converts—­you doomed black dozen—­
No stealing away—­nor cog nor cozen! 
You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly;
You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely;
You took your turn and dipped in the hat,
Got fortune—­and fortune gets you; mind that!

VII

Give your first groan—­compunction’s at work
And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk. 
Lo, Micah,—­the selfsame beard on chin
He was four times already converted in! 40
Here’s a knife, clip quick—­it’s a sign of grace—­
Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.

VIII

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at? 
I know a point where his text falls pat. 
I’ll tell him to-morrow, a word just now
Went to my heart and made me vow
I meddle no more with the worst of trades—­
Let somebody else pay his serenades.

IX