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But however we got him middlin' quite
Sittin' there. I took a delight
To hear the Pazon readin' the sarvice;
Lek, you know, a lill bit narvous—
Aw, beautiful! For praechin'——well——
I was likin' him terrible;
But others was sayin' he hadn' the power:
And of coorse he cudn' go on by the hour
Like these Locals and that, nor he cudn' shout
And rag, and fling his arms about
Like a windmill theer, and his body goin' drivin'
Half urrov the pulpit—and how they're contrivin'
To keep their balance God only knows,
And sweatin' and stranglin' in their clothes
Most awful they are; and “Awake! awake!
Ye sinners!” and roors. But delicake—
That was the Pazon—not raw, but ripe,
And mallow, like berries, like a aisy pipe,
That draws like a baby the smooth it's goin'—
There's some that's bad to rattle and groan
Boosely—what? just wantin' clanin'—
Aye! But the Pazon that putty strainin'
Like God was takin' him for a flute,
And playin' on him—tootle-toot?
Not Him! but lovely music, clear
And sweet. You'd think, if you could hear
An angel smilin', it'd be rather
Like that—what? “I'll go to my father,”
It's sayin' theer, “and sinned,” d'ye see!
“Against Heaven,” aye! “and before thee,
And no more worthy to be callin'
Thy son.” And “Dearly beloved,” and fallin'
Down on their knees. And “no health in us,”
And “lost sheep,” and wuss and wuss.
And then the Pazon on his own hook,
And the sollum, and the lovely look
On his dear ould face—and the surt of a tenor,
And “desireth not the death of a sinner”—
Like just a mossel higher—aye!
Aw, fit to make a body cry—
Fit enough; and safter and safter,
And “that the rest of our life hereafter—”
My gough! like drops upon a wound,
And all “through Jesus,” you'll be bound.