He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he’s got,
And I don’t know whether he will pass or not.
He never would pray with an earnest vim,
Or go to revival, or join in a hymn,
So I had to leave him in sorrow there
While I, with the chosen, united in prayer.
He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,
While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord;
And if cucumbers were all he got
It’s a chance if he merited them or not.