The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
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| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist
At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;
And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in
Sweet savours of doctrine, there never was kitchen.
He preach'd in the parlour, he preach'd in the hall,
He preach'd to the chambermaids, scullions, and all.
All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,
But above all, the cook-maid;—oh, ne'er would she tire—
Though, in learning to save sinful souls from the fire
She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.
(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!—
A sad trick I've learn'd in Bob's heathen society.)
But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;
Come, Ast'risks, and help me the sad truth to veil—
Conscious stars, that at ev'n your own secret turn pale!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,
Chosen “vessels of mercy,” as I thought they were,
Have together this last week eloped; making bold
To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold—
Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,
Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,
And besides, from the drawer—I neglecting to lock it—
My neat “Morning Manna, done up for the pocket.”
Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz?
It has made me quite ill:—and the worst of it is,
When rogues are all pious, 'tis hard to detect
Which rogues are the reprobate, which the elect.
This man “had a call,” he said—impudent mockery!
What call had he to my linen and crockery?
At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;
304
Sweet savours of doctrine, there never was kitchen.
He preach'd in the parlour, he preach'd in the hall,
He preach'd to the chambermaids, scullions, and all.
All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,
But above all, the cook-maid;—oh, ne'er would she tire—
Though, in learning to save sinful souls from the fire
She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.
(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!—
A sad trick I've learn'd in Bob's heathen society.)
But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;
Come, Ast'risks, and help me the sad truth to veil—
Conscious stars, that at ev'n your own secret turn pale!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,
Chosen “vessels of mercy,” as I thought they were,
Have together this last week eloped; making bold
To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold—
Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,
Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,
305
My neat “Morning Manna, done up for the pocket.”
Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz?
It has made me quite ill:—and the worst of it is,
When rogues are all pious, 'tis hard to detect
Which rogues are the reprobate, which the elect.
This man “had a call,” he said—impudent mockery!
What call had he to my linen and crockery?
“Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket,” and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse Association, whose design is, we are told, “to induce the inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa, are every morning learning the same verse.”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |