"No," answered he—"go, every one;

I've had the same before,

And, with a little medicine,

No doubt 'twill soon be o'er.

"Run, Peter, run for Bonny Gray,

Nor tarry till you find him;

I've often heard his own or say

He'd carry all behind him."

The carriage stands before the door;

They enter—one, two, three;

The deacon says, "There's room for more—

Enough for Parson G."

The parson was a portly man—

The deacon loved to joke;

But afterwards, as it befell,

Was sorry that he spoke.

They move to join the gathering throng

Within the house of prayer.

Now ceased the bell its solemn peal—

The deacon was not there.

Where was he, then? Perhaps you'll say

In easy chair reclining,

The glimmer of his spectacles,

Upon his Bible shining.

Ah, no! See you that earnest man,

With air so bold and free,

Driving a spotted, warlike bull?—

That very man is he.

Left to himself, the deacon grave

Tarried not long within,

And, thinking of his sturdy beasts,

Forgot his medicine.

"I hope the meeting will be full,

And I shall not be missed,"

Softly he breathed, and, looking round,

He murmured, "All is whist!"

Thus on he drove that spotted bull,

And near the gateway placed him,

And when the other one came out,

It happened so, he faced him.