Come over the hills out of York, parson Hay;
Thy living is goodly, thy mansion is gay;
Thy flock will be scattered if longer thou stay,
Our shepherd, our vicar—the good parson Hay.

Oh, fear not, for thou shalt have plenty indeed,
Far more than a shepherd so humble will need;
Thy wage shall be ample—two thousand or more,
Which rent and exaction will bring to thy store.

And if thou should'st wish for a little increase,
The lambs thou may'st sell, and the flock thou may'st fleece;
The market is good—the prices are high—
And butchers are ready with money to buy.

Thy dwelling-house pleasantly stands on the hill,
The town lies below it, all quiet and still;
With a church at thine elbow for preaching and pray'r,
And a rich congregation to ponder and stare.

And here, like a good loyal priest, thou shalt reign,
The cause of thy patron with zeal to maintain;
The poor and the hungry shall faint at thy word,
As thou threatens with hell in the name of the Lord.