7
The next being Sabbath day,
My custom to rest and pray;
But revolution has changed the time,
And must condemn myself in rhyme:
“A Sabbath well spent,
Brings a week of content,
And strength for the toils of to-morrow;
But a Sabbath profaned,
Whatso’er may be gained,
Is the sure forerunner of sorrow.”
Allow me this excuse to make,
When Sabbath journey I take,
’Tis on land and not the rail,
My sin on then I don’t wish to tail;
Went six miles by trotters fast,
To Mr. McCall’s to breakfast,
He being one of the railmen,
I pitched into him again,
That there should be at least water to drink
On his train if not to wash out the stink;
The stuff they carried for water,
Was flatly refused by his daughter,
As to myself my taste not fine,
I could not drink the turpentine,
Getting so thirsty asked conductor
If no chance to get good water;
He handed a boy the front car key,
Told him there to water me,
And after some travelling about,
I drank good water from a spout,
