"
Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist
At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;
And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in
Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen.
He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall,
He preached to the chambermaids, scullions and all.
All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,
But above all, the cook-maid:--oh, ne'er would she tire--
Tho', in learning to save sinful souls from the fire,
She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.
(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!--
A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.)
But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;
Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil--
Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale!
* * * * *
* * * * *
In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,
Chosen "vessels of mercy," as _I_ thought they were,
Have together this last week eloped; making bold
To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold--
Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,
Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,
And besides, from the drawer--I neglecting to lock it--
My neat "Morning Manna, done up for the pocket.
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