But, if at the Church they would give us some ale, And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And G.o.d, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

_William Blake._

SYMPATHY

A knight and a lady once met in a grove While each was in quest of a fugitive love; A river ran mournfully murmuring by, And they wept in its waters for sympathy.

"Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!"

"Oh, never was maid so deserted before!"

"From life and its woes let us instantly fly, And jump in together for company!"

They searched for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble and there was a weed; "How tiresome it is!" said the fair, with a sigh; So they sat down to rest them in company.

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!

"One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, "ere we die!"

So kissing and crying kept company.

"Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!"

"Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!"

"To miss such perfection how blinded was I!"

Sure now they were excellent company!

At length spoke the la.s.s, 'twixt a smile and a tear, "The weather is cold for a watery bier; When summer returns we may easily die, Till then let us sorrow in company."

_Reginald Heber._

THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS

For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit: 'Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A G.o.dly, thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended: A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way, Compound for sins they are inclin'd to, By d.a.m.ning those they have no mind to: Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped G.o.d for spite: The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for: Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow: All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin: Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minc'd pies and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge, Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose.

_Samuel Butler._

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

O thou wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel, Sends ane to Heaven, an' ten to h.e.l.l, A' for Thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They've done before Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here, before Thy sight, For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation!

I, wha deserv'd most just d.a.m.nation, For broken laws Sax thousand years ere my creation, Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me deep in h.e.l.l, To gnash my gooms, to weep and wail In burnin' lakes, Whare d.a.m.ned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to their stakes.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' Thy flock!

But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly l.u.s.t; An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd wi' sin.

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset Thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre proud and high should turn That he's sae gifted: If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou has a chosen race: But G.o.d confound their stubborn face, An' blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace An' open shame!

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, Yet has sae monie takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae G.o.d's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa.

An' when we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail an' potatoes!

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr!

Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads!

Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare, For their misdeeds!

O Lord, my G.o.d! that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My vera heart and saul are quakin'

To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', An' pish'd wi' dread, While he wi' hingin' lip an' snakin', Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him!

Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pa.s.s not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r; But for Thy people's sake destroy them, An' dinna spare!

But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen!

_Robert Burns._

THE LEARNED NEGRO

There was a negro preacher, I have heard, In Southern parts before rebellion stirred, Who did not spend his strength in empty sound; His was a mind deep-reaching and profound.

Others might beat the air, and make a noise, And help to amuse the silly girls and boys; But as for him, he was a man of thought, Deep in theology, although untaught.

He could not read or write, but he was wise, And knew right smart how to extemporize.

One Sunday morn, when hymns and prayers were said, The preacher rose and rubbing up his head, "Bredren and sisterin, and companions dear, Our preachment for to-day, as you shall hear, Will be ob de creation,--ob de plan On which G.o.d fashioned Adam, de fust man.

When G.o.d made Adam, in de ancient day, He made his body out ob earth and clay, He shape him all out right, den by and by, He set him up again de fence to dry."

"Stop," said a voice; and straightway there arose An ancient negro in his master's clothes.

"Tell me," said he, "before you farder go, One little thing which I should like to know.