BISHOP PETE.
Ah, right you air! A creed it is demandin' iron
mettle!
A will that quells, as soon as riz, the biling of
the kettle!
With wary eye, with manner deep, a spirit
overbrimmin',
Like to a shepherd 'mong his sheep, the Saint is
'mong his women;
And unto him they do uplift their eyes in awe
and wonder;
His notice is a blessed gift, his anger is blue
thunder.
No n'ises vex the holy place where dwell those
blessed parties;
Each missus shineth in her place, and blithe and
meek her heart is!
They sow, they spin, they darn, they hem, their
blessed babes they handle,
The Devil never comes to them, lit by that holy
candle!
When in their midst serenely walks their
Master and their Mentor,
They're hush'd, as when the Prophet stalks down
holy church's centre!
They touch his robe, they do not move, those
blessed wives and mothers,
And, when on one he shineth love, no envy fills
the others;
They know his perfect saintliness, and honour
his affection—
And, if they did object, I guess he'd settle that
objection!