Читать книгу Saint Abe and His Seven Wives - Buchanan Robert Williams - Страница 9

Ah, things down here, as you observe, are getting

more pernicious,

And Brigham's losing all his nerve, altho' the

fix is vicious.

Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous place and fill'd

our holy quivers,

The Yankee comes with dern'd long face to give

us all the shivers!

And on his jaws a wicked grin prognosticates

disaster,

And, jest as sure as sin is sin, he means to be

the master.

"Pack up your traps," I hear him cry, "for here

there's no remainin',"

And winks with his malicious eye, and progues

us out of Canaan.

It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour

nor the stranger —

No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive

the danger.

The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm

wants hands to guide it,

Tain't from without the tiler'll bust, but 'cause

of steam inside it;

Yet if we went falootin' less, and made less

noise and flurry,

It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in a

hurry.

But there's sedition east and west, and secret

revolution,

There's canker in the social breast, rot in the

constitution;

And over half of us, at least, are plunged in mad

vexation,

Forgetting how our race increased, our very

creed's foundation.

What's our religion's strength and force, its

substance, and its story?

Polygamy, my friend, of course! the law of love

and glory!

Stranger, I'm with you there, indeed: – it's been

the best of nusses;

Polygamy is to our creed what meat and drink

to us is.

Destroy that notion any day, and all the rest is

brittle,

And Mormondom dies clean away like one in

want of vittle.

It's meat and drink, it's life, it's power! to

heaven its breath doth win us!

It warms our vitals every hour! it's Holy Ghost

within us!

Jest lay that notion on the shelf, and all life's

springs are frozen!

I've half-a-dozen wives myself, and wish I had a

dozen!

If all the Elders of the State like you were sound

and holy,

P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far less

melancholy.

You air a man of blessed toil, far-shining and

discerning,

A heavenly lamp well trimm'd with oil, upon the

altar burning.

And yet for every one of us with equal resolu-

tion,

There's twenty samples of the Cuss, as mean as

Brother Clewson.

St. Abe?

Yes, him– the snivelling sneak – his very name

provokes me, —

Altho' my temper's milky-meek, he sours me

and he chokes me.

To see him going up and down with those meek

lips asunder,

Jest like a man about to drown, with lead to sink

him under,

His grey hair on his shoulders shed, one leg than

t'other shorter,

No end of cuteness in his head, and him – as

weak as water!

And yet how well I can recall the time when

Abe was younger —

Why not a chap among us all went for the

notion stronger.

When to the mother-country he was sent to wake