Steppin’ on with fine importance, like a general paradin’
In his Sunday regimentals, comes the Pillar of the Church.
There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’—
Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see;
There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’,
And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery,
There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours;
Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear;
Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours,
Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.