And garments damp with midnight dews,
The poor Apostles, staff in hand,
Went limping through a stranger’s land.
Now charge they up and down the way,
Like jockeys on the “Derby day;”
And we poor wights must waltz aside,
And let the pulpit princes glide;
Or have a phaeton o’er us wheeled,
Or have our heels adroitly peeled.
Oh, money! money! root and start