Fifty of the Protestant Ballads :: :: University of Virginia Library

In other trades,—if trade this be,
Exertion wins the highest fee,
And none achieve success
Who will not well keep up the ball
With constant effort, lest it fall,
Or make the winnings less.

The lawyer, if he fails in skill,
The doctor, if his nostrums kill,

The merchant, if he sleeps,
The tutor, if a dunce himself,
All drones, in fact, get short of pelf,
And labour only reaps.

But, where Stagnation rules the hour,
And sloth established sits in power,
All energies are dead,—
Our simple people dozing sit,
And never heed how little wit
Is in their parson's head!

Then, at our Church's partial feast
Hard-working Labour gets the least,
And silken Ease the most;
The curates hardly earn their board,
While rectors, canons, and My Lord,
Are kept at Crœsus cost!

Yet those “inferiors” do the work;
The curate slaves where rectors shirk,
A noble soul is he,—
He buries, visits, preaches, prays,
Does all,—then to his rector pays
For each the surplice-fee!

But lo! that noble soul himself,
When safe soon after on the shelf,
A living fat and sure,
Forgets, alas! his working zeal,
And how for others he could feel,
While self was insecure.

And more: belike, in pride of place,
He half presumes that gifts and grace
Through him alone are shed;
And yet, by rubrics made most wise,
Will neither bury, nor baptize
The sponsorless, or dead!

Why don't we, as Dissenters do,
Breed up our priests with prudence due,
And pick best men with skill?
Nor lightly let the family-fool,
Early made profligate at school,
Each family-living fill?

Why can't we, from America's plan,
Of serving God and blessing man,
Take a broad hint to-day?
The labourer there gets ample hire,
But laymen righteously require
The labour for the pay!