The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

300
'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth,
A man has got his belly full of meat
Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!
Mere verbiage--it is not worth a carrot!
Why, Socrates or Plato--where 's the odds?--
Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is
Not a whit better than a Mantis--
An insect, of what clime I can't determine,
That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence,
By simple savages--through sheer pretense--
Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin.
But where's the reverence, or where the nous,
To ride on one's religion through the lobby,
Whether as stalking-horse or hobby,
To show its pious paces to "the house."
I honestly confess that I would hinder
The Scottish member's legislative rigs,
That spiritual Pindar,
Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs,
That must be lashed by law, wherever found,
And driven to church as to the parish pound.
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle,
I view that groveling idea as one
Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son,
A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle.
On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd
How much a man can differ from his neighbor,
One wishes worship freely given to God,
Another wants to make it statute-labor--
The broad distinction in a line to draw,
As means to lead us to the skies above,
You say--Sir Andrew and his love of law,
And I--the Saviour with his law of love.
Spontaneously to God should tend the soul,