BISHOP JOSS.
It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour
nor the stranger—
No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive
the danger.
The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm
wants hands to guide it,
Tain't from without the tiler'll bust, but 'cause
of steam inside it;
Yet if we went falootin' less, and made less
noise and flurry,
It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in a
hurry.
But there's sedition east and west, and secret
revolution,
There's canker in the social breast, rot in the
constitution;
And over half of us, at least, are plunged in mad
vexation,
Forgetting how our race increased, our very
creed's foundation.
What's our religion's strength and force, its
substance, and its story?