Awm net mich up o' parsons,—
Ther's some daycent ens aw know;
They're smart enuff at praichin,
But at practice they're too slow.
For dooin gooid nooan can deny
Ther chonces are mooast ample;
If they'd give us fewer precepts,
An rayther moor example.
We need a friend to help waik sheep,
Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;—
Ther's a big responsibility
Rests on a parson's shoulders.
But oft ther labor's all in vain,
Noa matter ha persistent;
Becoss ther taichin an ther lives
Are hardly quite consistent.
Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in God,
When bad is growing worse;
An nowt abate ther trust, unless
It chonce to touch ther purse.
They say, "Who giveth to the poor,
Lends to the Lord," but yet,
They all seem varry anxious,
Net to get the Lord in debt.
But wi my fooilish nooations
Mayhap yo'll net agree,—
Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,—
But it seems that way to me.
If yo hear a clivver sarmon,
Yor attention it command's,
If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white
As what he keeps his hands.
Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways,
An too mich affectation;
They work i'th' vinyard a few days,
Then hint abaat vacation.
He has to have a holiday
Because he's worked soa hard;—
Well, aw allus think 'at labor
Is desarvin ov reward.