To love paroshial orficers,
The squire, and all that’s his,
And never goo wi’ idle chaps
As wants their wages riz.
So now conwarted I ha’ bin
From igorance and wice;
It’s only ’appiness that’s sin,
And norty things that’s nice!
Whereas I called them upstart gents
The wust o’ low bred snobs,
Wi’ contrite ’art I hollers out
“My heye, wot bloomin’ nobs!”
I sees the error o’ my ways,
So, lads, this warnin’ take,
The Poor Man’s path, the parson says,
Winds round the Burnin’ Lake.
They’ve changed it since the days o’ yore,
Them Gospel preachers, drat un;
They used to preach it to the poor,
An’ now they preach it at un.
Every one was amazed at the astonishing memory of this country lad: and the applause that greeted the reciter might well be calculated to awaken his latent vanity. It was like being called before the curtain after the first act by a young actor on his first appearance. And I believe every one understood the meaning of the verses, which seemed to imply that the hungry prodigal, famishing for food, was fed with husks instead of grain. Contentment with wretchedness is not good preaching, and this was one lesson of Dr. Brimstone’s sermon. As soon as Harry could make himself heard amidst the general hubbub, which usually follows a great performance, he said:—
“Now, look here, lads, it’s all very well to be converted with such preaching as that; but it’s my belie it’s more calculated to make hypocrites than Christians.”
“Hear! hear!” said Lazyman. “That is right.” Anything but conversion for Lazyman.
“Now,” continued Harry, “I’ve heard that kind of preaching a hundred times: it’s a regular old-fashioned country sermon; and, as for the poor being so near hell, I put it in these four lines.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the company; “order!”