The parson goes about his daily ways
With all the parish troubles in his head,
And takes his Bible out, and reads and prays,
Beside the sufferer’s chair, the dying bed.
Whate’er the secret skeleton may be—
Doubt, drink, or debt—that keeps within his lair,
When parson comes, the owner turns the key,
And lets him out to “squeak and gibber” there.
It seems a possibility unguessed—
Or little borne in mind, if haply known—