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Poem by Louisa Sarah Bevington In and out of Church Dogmadealer, talking treason, Spurning truth, perverting reason In and out of folly's season Year by year Oh, a plague on all the twaddle In your hum drum niddlenoodle, Mammon's lawpaid mollycoddle Limp with fear. Is there "sin" in worldy leaven? Yet there's not one day in seven When you fail to sell your gammon All for pelf; "Heaven to let"to paying lodger; Ah, you canting devildodger, Damn not us who spurn your Mammon, Damn yourself! If I've done some bad behaving, And I don't deserve the saving, Then 'tis honour bids the braving Of my dues; Pilot souls to your sky places Who are full of Sunday graces, And with sweat from poor men's faces Pay for pews. Call the purseproud from their blisses, Call the fashionable misses From "advisers'" holy kisses, Call, and call; Call the people's sly mindshapers, Call the kings of daily papers Cutting "law and order" capers One and all. Here's my Lord Archbishop, mind you, Paid to gorge himself, and blind you, Till your very self can't find you Anywhere; Simple Jesus! See the old 'un! Why, his dinnerplates are golden! May the sight our hearts embolden In our prayer. Ah, dismiss them, with a "blessing;" All intoning and confessing; Never more our souls distressing With their cant! Help to silence priestly mumble, Help the Mammontemples tumble, Freedom's banner o'er the jumble Firm to plant. Come, dear toilers, stained and weary, Come and help the world grow cheery, Come from out your prison dreary Built by greed; You who labour heavyladen, Slaving mother, trampled maiden, Ever preached to, every preyed on, In your need; Let your winters grow no colder, Rise at last and dare be bolder, Setting shoulder firm to shoulder For a thrust! Yokes be eased, and burdens lighter, As the great Hope warms the fighter, And the broad New Day grows brighter And more just. Louisa Sarah Bevington Louisa Sarah Bevington's other poems: 1249 Views |
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