BISHOP JOSS.
The holy Spirit couldn't thrive because the Flesh
was sickly!
Tho' day by day he did increase his flock, his
soul was shallow,
His brains were only candle-grease, and wasted
down like tallow.
He stoop'd a mighty heap too much, and let his
household rule him,
The weakness of the man was such that any face
could fool him.
Ay! made his presence cheap, no doubt, and so
contempt grew quicker,—
Not measuring his notice out in smallish drams,
like liquor.
His house became a troublous house, with mis-
chief overbrimmin',
And he went creeping like a mouse among the
cats of women.
Ah, womenfolk are hard to rule, their tricks is
most surprising,
It's only a dern'd spoony fool goes sentimental-
ising!
But give'em now and then a bit of notice and a
present,
And lor, they're just like doves, that sit on one
green branch, all pleasant!
But Abe's love was a queer complaint, a sort of
tertian fever,
Each case he cured of thought the Saint a
thorough-paced deceiver;
And soon he found, he did indeed, with all their
whims to nourish,
That Mormonism ain't a creed where fleshly
follies flourish.