"
The parson was a portly man--
The deacon loved to joke;
But afterwards, as it befell,
Was sorry that he spoke.
They move to join the gathering throng
Within the house of prayer.
Now ceased the bell its solemn peal--
The deacon was not there.
Where was he, then? Perhaps you'll say
In easy chair reclining,
The glimmer of his spectacles,
Upon his Bible shining.
Ah, no! See you that earnest man,
With air so bold and free,
Driving a spotted, warlike bull?--
That very man is he.
Left to himself, the deacon grave
Tarried not long within,
And, thinking of his sturdy beasts,
Forgot his medicine.
"I hope the meeting will be full,
And I shall not be missed,"
Softly he breathed, and, looking round,
He murmured, "All is whist!"
Thus on he drove that spotted bull,
And near the gateway placed him,
And when the other one came out,
It happened so, he faced him.
"When Greek meets Greek," the deacon said,
"Then comes the tug of war;"
But such another tug, I ween,
The deacon never saw.
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