But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’,
Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore,
Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’,
Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door.
What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’,
He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,
Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’
In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.
Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him;
Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear,