The Old Parson’s Story

They say I am old and for­get­ful

My style is as slow as a snail;

My doc­trines are all out of fa­shion

My mind is be­gin­ning to fail;

They want a more flow­ery preach­er

More full of for­give­ness and love

To talk to them less ab­out brim­stone

And more of the man­sions ab­ove.

For fif­ty long years I’ve been preach­ing

I’ve stu­died my old Bi­ble well;

I al­ways have felt it my du­ty

To show them the hor­rors of hell;

Perhaps I’ve been wrong in my no­tions

I’ve fol­lowed the Scrip­tures

I know

And nev­er have know­ingly brok­en

The vows that I took long ago.

I’ve seen many tri­als and chang­es

I’ve fought a good fight against wrong;

The gals have grown up to be wo­men

The boys have got man­ly and strong;

The hon­est old dea­cons have van­ished

Their pure lives have come to a close;

They sleep in the si­lent old church­yard

Where soon I shall lie in re­pose.

My flock has been always com­plain­ing

The church was not right­ly ar­ranged

They vot­ed to have a high stee­ple

The gal­lery had to be changed;

They built up a fan­ci­ful ves­try

They bought the best or­gan in town;

They chopped the old pews in­to kind­ling

And tum­bled the tall pul­pit down.

And now

to my pain and my sor­row

They say

the old par­son must go;

I know I am child­ish and fee­ble

My steps are un­stea­dy and slow.

They want a more spir­it­ed speak­er

I’m told the new dea­cons have said

To dance round the plat­form and holl­er

And wake up the souls that are dead.

I’ll try to be­lieve that what hap­pens

Will al­ways come out for the best;

They tell me my la­bor is end­ed

’Tis time I was tak­ing a rest;

I’ve lit­tle of com­fort or rich­es

I’m cer­tain my con­science is clear;

And when in the church­yard I’m sleep­ing

Perhaps they may wish I was here.