Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PARSON O' PORLOCK TOWN; A MORAL BALLAD, by CHARLES WHARTON STORK Poet's Biography First Line: There once was a parson o' porlock town Last Line: Grow pale at the fear of shame? Subject(s): Clergy; Unfaithfulness; Priests; Rabbis; Ministers; Bishops; Infidelity; Adultery; Inconstancy | ||||||||
There once was a parson o' Porlock Town And a well-favoured youth was he. With a task for his life and a shrew for his wife, He was sad as a man might be. The parson he strode on the broad highroad, He went with a downcast eye, Till he caught the half of an elfish laugh From a copse of the heath hard by. But when the parson had raised his looks He crossed himself in dread, For there by the wood a brown girl stood And her bodice was scarlet red. As soft was her eye as the evening sky, Her loose hair black and fine, And the man that looked on her wilful mouth, Oh! long his heart would pine. "Come, turn you, parson o' Porlock Town, And tarry a while with me. Your brow is bold and your locks are gold And comely of form you be." "I know you not, you gipsy wench, I know not your kith nor kin. From your forward ways and your shameless gaze I deem you a child of sin." "You speak the words of a book, sir priest, You name but an idle name, For how can the cheek that is flushed with life Grow pale at the fear of shame?" "Then come and try with hand and eye The truth of what I say." His step was slow and very slow As he turned from the broad highway. But he danced when the evening moon was up For joy of the gipsy life, He left the drone of his church of stone And the clack of his scolding wife. He's sworn a faith with never a word More strong than his plighted vow, For the brown girl's face is his book of grace And her eyes are his candles now. He's found the God that he never knew In the sun, in the thyme-sweet air, And he lauds his name by the camp fire's flame With a song that is living prayer. --------- Oh, the worthy people o' Porlock Town Speak ill of their parson fled; His wife by the banns is another man's And she hopes that the first is dead. But the priest that forsook his musty book, He shrinks for no idle name, For how can the cheek that is flushed with life Grow pale at the fear of shame? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A RITUAL AS OLD AS TIME ITSELF by PETER JOHNSON THE RING AND THE CASTLE by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: TOM MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IF THERE'S A GOD... by GREGORY ORR A DIVER by CHARLES WHARTON STORK |
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