Old Dave to th' New Parson.

"Soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo?     Well, awm fain to see yo've come;     Yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst,     But mak yorsen at hooam.     Aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me,     If aw tell what's in mi noddle,     Remember, if we dooant agree,     It's but an old man's twaddle.     But aw might happen drop a hint,     'At may start yo to thinkin;     Awd help yo if aw saw mi way,     An do it too, like winkin.     Awm net mich up o' parsons, -     Ther's some daycent ens aw know;     They're smart enuff at praichin,     But at practice they're too slow.     For dooin gooid nooan can deny     Ther chonces are mooast ample;     If they'd give us fewer precepts,     An rayther moor example.     We need a friend to help waik sheep,     Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders; -     Ther's a big responsibility     Rests on a parson's shoulders.     But oft ther labor's all in vain,     Noa matter ha persistent;     Becoss ther taichin an ther lives     Are hardly quite consistent.     Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in God,     When bad is growing worse;     An nowt abate ther trust, unless     It chonce to touch ther purse.     They say, "Who giveth to the poor,     Lends to the Lord," but yet,     They all seem varry anxious,     Net to get the Lord in debt.     But wi my fooilish nooations     Mayhap yo'll net agree, -     Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen, -     But it seems that way to me.     If yo hear a clivver sarmon,     Yor attention it command's,     If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white     As what he keeps his hands.     Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways,     An too mich affectation;     They work i'th' vinyard a few days,     Then hint abaat vacation.     He has to have a holiday     Because he's worked soa hard; -     Well, aw allus think 'at labor     Is desarvin ov reward.     What matters, tho' his little flock     A shepherd's care is wantin:     Old Nick may have his run o'th' fold     Wol he's off galavantin.     Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one,     Yo seem a gradely sooart;     But if yo' th' Gospel armour don,     Yo'll find it isn't spooart.     Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright,     For a mess ov worldly pottage:     But spend less time i'th' squire's hall     An moor i'th' poor man's cottage.     Point aght the way an walk in it,     They'll follow, one bi one,     An when yo've gained yor journey's end,     Yo'll hear them words, "Well done."     A Christian soldier has to be,     Endurin, bold an brave;     Strong in his faith he'll sewerly win,     As sewer as my name's Dave."