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The Parson and the Pedlar.
'Twas when Winter's winds were howling,
With mournful deafning sound;
And Jack Frost had spread his carpet
Upon the frozen ground,
That a Pedlar went forth to tramp
A dreary round.
With pack on back and limping tread,
Despising Fortune's frown;
Greeting the dawn with cheerful song,
He left the sleeping town,
Hoping to earn a golden coin
Before sundown.
The Pedlar had not travelled far,
When from the blinding sleet;
At a Parson's house hard by he sought,
And found a safe retreat,
Where he could rest awhile, and ease his
Chilblained feet.
Like other religious strategists,
Learned Parson McCann,
By his simple flock was held to be
A faultless Christian man;
Orthodox as is the Pope to his
Devoted clan.
The Pedlar had no sooner reached
The Prelate's mansion door,
Than his thundering rat-a-tat-tat
Echoed from roof to floor,
For the pangs of cold were gnawing hard,
At his heart's core.
"Mine Gott? mine Gott!" the traveller cried,
'Help! help! or I shall die;"
For no longer could the hapless Jew,
The elements defy,
But sank to the ground exhausted, with
A moaning cry.
The Parson quickly discovered
The Jew's unhappy state;
And soothed the "lowly stranger" with
A grand discourse on fate.
Enlarging on the follies of those
Of low estate.
The Pedlar soon regain'd consciousness,
To the Parson's surprise,
Who thought the ill-starred sinner's soul
Was winging to the skies;
But the One on whom all things depend
"Will'd otherwise."
Now the Parson looked bewildered,
And scarce knew what to do;
When the "lowly stranger" proved to be
A "heathen pedlar Jew."
Who wished to still "at less than cost"
"A vatch or two."
"Vould you like to buy a vatch, Sir?"
The eager Pedlar cried;
"I have von here I'll varrant vill
Keep time vith any tide;
I bought it from a nobleman
Vho met a gambler's fate,
And thro' backing losing horses
He now lives on the State."
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Like an earnest Christian hero
Little Parson McCann
Buckl'd on the sword of Truth, and
Attack'd the heathen man.
Parson.
Have you never heard of Jesus,
The great, the good, the brave.
Who fought and bled on Calvary,
Poor wretched souls to save;
And gave His holy body to Be nailed to a tree,
That with His precious blood He might
Set captive sinners free.
Pedlar.
Avast, my friend, I left my home,
This cold and cheerless day,
To try to sell my jewellery,
And not to hear you pray.
Your intentions may be good, as
The love of God is pure;
But advice vithout medicine
Vill hardly vork a cure.
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
May God, whose mighty power
Proclaims His name supreme,
Arouse thee, sleeping sinner,
From thy deluding dream;
And may He in His mercy
Put forth His saving hand,
Preserve thee from Satan and
His cruel bloody band.
Pedlar.
Vith all my heart I thank you, sir,
For all your kind vishes;
But vhy offer a hungry man
Naught but empty dishes?
Pray buy this splendid lever vatch,
Vith this artistic guard;
You may be sure such a vise act
Vould bring its own revard.
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
May God root out the cankerous weed
Sin planted in thy breast,
That thy soul may yield in righteousness
The fruit He loveth best.
Jesus is the sinner's only shield,
In Him put all thy trust;
For thro' faith a righteous soul shall live
When man is gone to dust.
Pedlar.
Pray say vhere is the poor man's friend,
Vhere is he to be found?
Vho vould help a vay-vorn brother
If he saw von aground;
And tell me if the man you preach,
Vhilst living on this sod,
page 8
Vorked for big money vages
Or for the love of God?
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
Jesus is the poor man's friend,
In Him mercy will be found;
He will help the wanderer,
If in sin he gets aground.
Tarry not another moment,
Seek at once the Sinner's Friend;
He will receive thee kindly,
And to all thy wants attend.
Pedlar.
If a vorthy low-born brother
Is cast by Fate's cold frown
Into a sea of misery,
He's cruelly left to drown;
But should a high-born vicious rake
Thro' folly tumble down,
To prop him up a yearly sum
Is granted by the Crown.
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Adown the Parson's face
Big drops of sweat did flow,
As he stagger'd 'neath the
Weight of the Jew's last blow.
page 9
Parson.
Jesus is waiting at the liver,
To see thee safely o'er;
Go, sinner, where thy famish'd soul
Shall never thirst no more.
He'll take thee to His Father's house
And tend thee day by day,
And feed thee with the Bread of Life,
And cast thy grief away.
Pedlar.
My good friend, you'd gather more
Stray sheep to the fold
If man's breathing depended
On other than gold;
Bare necessity creates
Countless sinful hearts,
For what saint could endure cold
Poverty's keen darts?
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
Poor sinner, tho' poverty
To crime may be akin,
And tho' destitution oft
Hath tempted man to sin;
According as man soweth,
He assuredly shall reap,
For while the righteous rejoice
The ungodly shall weep.
page 10
Go to Jesus, poor sinner,
Go to Him while 'tis day;
Go, ere eternal darkness
Shall bar the peaceful way.
Pedlar.
There's not a day goes o'er our heads
But countless helpless poor,
Thro' cruel neglect and hunger,
Are gasping at death's door!
Vhy don't you tell me how it is,
For I can't understand,
Vhy so many thousands die of thirst
In this vell-vatered land?
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy
Parson.
May thy conscience reprove thee
With Remorse's chast'ning rod,
That thy sin-burdened soul may
Be safely brought to God.
How insignificant the world
Compared to one lost soul!
O, pray seek the Great Physician,
And let him make thee whole.
Pedlar.
Be not o'er proud to take a hint from
Von vho appears a fool,
For a Simple Simon oft has gained
A prize at Visdom's school.
page 11
When you find a needy fellow-vorm
Crush'd by misfortune's curse,
Unbutton a sympathising heart,
And open vide your purse.
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
Poor infidel, I'm much afraid
A mine of sin is in thee laid;
Satan, with his infernal band,
Awaits thy wreck on Mis'ry's strand,
Faith with works alone can save
Thee from damnation's fiery grave.
Pedlar.
'Tis time I had done some business,
Not sold a thing all day;
And vasting precious time like this
I'm sure will never pay.
Come buy this antiquated cup,
By Hiram it vas made,
And carried from Jerusalem
Time of Richard's crusade.
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
I will not buy thy much-prized ware,
Nor in thy curs'd unbelief take share;
The gold and silver thou lovest so well
Cannot save thy sinful soul from hell.
page 12
When thy master calls thee, thou must go,
And leave all thy idols here below;
Go seek, poor soul, for heavenly treasure,
Seek the Giver of eternal pleasure.
Pedlar.
'Pon my undoubted vord of honor,
You Parsons seem to think
All who ventures near a precipice
Must tumble o'er the brink.
The best made lamp ne'er gave a light
Vithout it had the oil,
And vater if it hasn't the heat
I'm sure will never boil.
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
Harden'd unbeliever,
Take thy woe to the Lord,
He is no deceiver;
Build thou upon His Word,
He will ne'er forsake thee,
But take thee to His breast:
Sinner, I implore thee,
Go seek eternal rest.
Tho' the earnest little Parson
Returned blow for blow,
He was no match for the Pedlar,
As the sequel will show.
Pedlar.
In the name of Patience, von't you buy
This rare Diamond ring,
Long an idol of the Chinese Prince,
Ching-a-Aug, Ching-a-Sing;
That gem sparkled in a Royal Crown,
Two thousand years or more,
And is equally as lustrous as
The famous "Koh-I-Noor."
Vill you buy, Mr. Parson, vill you buy?
Parson.
Benighted child of Israel,
Thou art as one that's dead;
Thy case looks doubtful—O, my soul,
All hope of cure seems fled.
Return sin-loving wanderer;
Why would'st thou farther go
Along the road that leads to death
And everlasting woe?
Pedlar.
The sun has run his daily round,
And darkness clos'd the day;
From my lov'd vife and little vones
I can no longer stay.
May God vatch o'er you alvays vith
A tender father's care,
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That the devil by his cunning
Mayn't catch you in his snare.
Good-bye, Mr. Parson, good-bye.
Parson.
May the grace of God be with thee
Where'er thou may'st go;
May plenty be thy coldest friend
And peace thy hottest foe.
And when thy pilgrimage is o'er,
God grant that thou may'st be
A faithful servant of the Lord's
To all eternity.
A Word for All.
If suff'ring man in countless ills
Applied to "Common Sense,"
He'd secure a good physician,
At little or no expense;
Whether sought for a preventive
Or consulted as to cure,
His remedies are genuine,
Their healing powers are sure.?
Tell Me Mother.
Tell me, is all hope departed—
Has her spirit flown away?
Has she left me broken-hearted?
Tell me, mother, do, I pray.
Tell me, did the lovely maiden
Pine her gentle soul away?
Was her heart with grief o'erladen?
Tell me, mother, do, I pray.
Tell me, mother, softly tell me,
Has the rose gone to decay?
Is there nought but sorrow left me?
Tell me, mother, do, I pray.
Mother.
Alas! my son, brood not o'er sorrow,
Heaven will light your lonesome way;
Fresh hope will crown the coming morrow,
Tho' clouds o'erhang your head to-day.
Lines.
To the Devil.
Had I thy ranging pow'rs, great liar,
And could I mortal passions rule,
Thy hateful soul-devouring fire would
Soon burn out for want of fuel.
Lines
Written in reply to a letter from a very intimate friend.—Author.
'Twas not thy winning smiles that moved
My soul thy love to prize;
'Twas not thy dainty form I wooed,
'Twas not thy love-full eyes.
'Twas more than honey'd words I sought
To soothe love's bitter smart;
'Twas for a heavenly prize I fought—
An ever-faithful heart.
Lines
Addressed to a Fabricator of Falsehoods.
Ungenerous, face-proud, silly maid,
You're highly skill'd in the lying trade;
When your 'prenticeship's expir'd,
I vow You'll not be more skilful then than now.
In ev'ry branch of the dev'lish trade,
Your reputation is firmly made.
Epigrams.
Bad temper is an odious thing,
Deny it if you can;
It mars the peace of happy homes,
And makes a beast of man.
Frail humankind is nothing more
Than dust upon the ground;
A puff of wind will blow away
Man, no more to be found.
When King Death shall summon us,
We must obey his call;
For as by sin man was raised,
So by sin he must fall.
'Tis wisdom in this troubled life
To do all we can;
To serve God with righteousness,
And not injure man.
On the evening of the 31st December, 1877, I with two friends agreed not to retire to rest till after the birth of the New Year. It was also understood that we should honour the event with a "feu de joie"! but, alas, friendly agreements, like national treaties, are made to be broken, for about 10 p.m. a third friend dropped in bringing with him a "big treat," to wit, one dozen of real good beer; and, as was natural on so auspicious an occasion, we uncorked and drank till a sense of drowsiness stole o'er our rather sensitive feelings, causing us to seek our beds, forgetting the "fair promises" we had made, till the following day, about 12 a.m., when I remembered and felt somewhat annoyed at Bacchus for his audacity, and consoled my wounded feelings by offering the following apology to the newly-born year:—
Pardon, eighteen seventy-eight,
My compliments, tho' rather late,
Are none the less sincere;
Old Bacchus with majestic pomp
Would have me join in merry romp
With right good bottled beer;
Therefore I pray thee be not hard
Upon thy evil-doing bard.
Prosper'ty be the tok'n;
Then throughout thy twelvemonths reign
Nought will I do that is profane.
'Tis my tongue that's spoken.
Broken-Hearted.
Thou Star of ray path, shed Thy soft light o'er me,
And steer my frail bark to the haven of rest;
O, sweet was the music that once fill'd my soul,
But anguish has now found a home in my breast.
Drear are the days, and gloomy the nights,
There's no hope of relief for the morrow:
Keen are the darts plung'd into my soul,
While my heart is o'erladen with sorrow.
* * * *
Tho' her faults are countless as sand on the shore,
And faithless the heart where affection should dwell,
While the storm rages fiercely I'll cling to the mast
Till the calm breeze of heaven the wild waves quell.
O God, let my soul in rapture repose,
And should hope my tattered sails fill,
Gently I'll glide o'er life's turbulent stream,
Broken-hearted—I love her still.
The Happy Ploughman.
The ploughman rises with the lark,
And hastens to his daily toil,
And labours hard from dawn till dark
To earn his bread, and till the soil.
The rose blooms on his ruddy cheek,
No tear of sorrow damps his eye,
He pursues his task week to week
Without a murmur or a sigh.
O'er furrow'd fields at ev'ning's close
The happy ploughman wends his way,
And homeward steers to seek repose
From toilsome duties of the day.
His good housewife and only child
With kind words greet him at the gate,
And love him with hearts undefiled,
Such is the ploughman's happy state.
Within his cot dwells peace of mind,
Sweet contentment, love and joy;
His thoughts are of the purest kind,
His greatest pride's his wife and boy.