The elder in his poolpit high said, as he slowly riz:
“Our organist is kep’ to hum, laid up ’ith roomatiz,
An’ as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain’t here,
Will some ’un in the congregation be so kind ’s to volunteer?”
An’ then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,
Give an interductory hiccup, an’ then swaggered up the aisle.
Then thro’ that holy atmosphere there crep’ a sense er sin,
An’ thro’ thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol’ gin.
Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:
“This man perfanes the house er God! W’y, this is sacrilege!”