Poems (Geisse)/Soliloquy of a Village Parson
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.
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 back of him is Samuel "Cant," 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.
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 further down sits Stephen Black, 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."
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.