SOLILOQUY OF A VILLAGE PARSON.
(A study from life.)
My Sunday's text, what shall it be?
Alas! I find it hard to write,
When the restraints that hamper me
Weigh heavy as they do to-night.
Alas! I find it hard to write,
When the restraints that hamper me
Weigh heavy as they do to-night.
There's Deacon "Boss," whose stubborn will,
And factious spirit I deplore,
Who thinks he ought to rule the church
Since he repaired the chancel floor.
And factious spirit I deplore,
Who thinks he ought to rule the church
Since he repaired the chancel floor.
And back of him is Samuel "Cant,"
Who also holds a prominent pew,
A pompous little vestryman
Who is, alas! my mentor, too.
Who also holds a prominent pew,
A pompous little vestryman
Who is, alas! my mentor, too.
While just across the middle aisle
Sits cranky Miss Matilda Strong,
An ancient dame of pious mien,
Who says my sermons are too long.
Sits cranky Miss Matilda Strong,
An ancient dame of pious mien,
Who says my sermons are too long.
And wants to tell me how to preach,
And thinks a pastor should refrain
From those too practical remarks
Which give a sensitive conscience pain.
And thinks a pastor should refrain
From those too practical remarks
Which give a sensitive conscience pain.
And further down sits Stephen Black,
A man of doctrine, cut and dried,
Of narrow mind and sordid aims,
Brimful of Pharisaic pride.
A man of doctrine, cut and dried,
Of narrow mind and sordid aims,
Brimful of Pharisaic pride.
And there are many, many more
To whom my duty bids me speak,
Men whose religion is, I fear,
"A Sunday garb donned once a week."
To whom my duty bids me speak,
Men whose religion is, I fear,
"A Sunday garb donned once a week."
And yet my fate is in their hands—
The very bread by which I live,
So if I fail to lead aright
Through impotence—O Lord forgive.
The very bread by which I live,
So if I fail to lead aright
Through impotence—O Lord forgive.