The Lambertville Record

POETRY:
JOHN HODGES SERMON
The minister said last night, says he,
"Don't be afraid of givin'
If your life ain't nothing to other folks,
Why, what's the use o' livin'?"
And that's what I say to wife, says I;
There's Brown, the mis'rable sinner.
He'd sooner a beggar should starve, than give
A penny toward buyin' a dinner.
I tell you our minister's grand, he is;
But I couldn't quite determine,
When I heard him a-givin' it right and left,
Just who was hit by the sermon.
Of course, there couldn't be no mistake,
When he talked of long-winded prayin'
For Peters and Johnson they sat and scowled
At every word he was sayin'.
And the minister he went on to say,
"There's various kinds o' cheatin'
And religion's as good for every day
As it is to bring to meetin'.
I don't think much of a man that gives
The Lord Amens at my preachin
And spends his time the followin' week
In cheatin' and overreaching."
I'spects that dose was bitter enough
For a man like Jones to swaller;
But I noticed he didn't open his mouth
Not once, after that, to holler.
Hurrah, says I, for the minister--
Of course, I said it quiet
Give us some more of this open talk,
It's very refreshin' diet.
The minister hit 'em every time;
And when he spoke of fashion,
And a-riggin' out in bows and things,
As woman's rulin' passion,
And a-comin' to church to see the styles,
I couldn't help a winkin'
And a-nudgin' my wife, and, says I, "That's you;"
And I guess it sat her thinkin'.
Says I to myself, that sermon's pat;
But man is a queer creation;
And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks
Won't take the application.
Now, if he had said a word about
My personal mode o' sinnin',
I'd gone to work to right myself,
And not set here a grinnin'.
Just then the minister says, says he,
"And now I come to the fellers
Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends
As sort o' moral umbrellas,
Go home," says he, "and find your faults,
Instead of huntin' your brothers' :
Go home," he says, "and wear the coats
You've tried to fit for others."
My wife, she nudged, and Brown, he winked
And there were lots o' smilin'
And lots o' lookin' at our pew;
It sat my blood a-bilin'
Says I to myself, our minister
Is gittin' a little bitter;
I'll tell him, when meetin' 's out, that I
Ain't at all that kind of a critter.