Classic Poem

Good Deacon Jones, although a pious man,
Was not constructed on the meagre plan;
And he so loved the Sabbath day of rest,
Of all the seven deemed it far the best;
Could he have made the year's allotment o'er,
He would have put in many rest-days more.
One Sunday morn, on sacred matters bent,
With his good wife, to church the deacon went.
And since there was no fear of being late,
The horse slow jogged along his Sunday gait.
This horse he got by trading with a Jew,
And called him Moses,—nothing else would do.
He'd been a race-horse in his palmy days,
But now had settled down to pious ways,—
Save now and then backsliding from his creed,
When overtempted to a burst of speed.

'T was early, and the deacon's wife was driving,
While from the book the deacon hard was striving
On sacred things to concentrate his mind—
The sound of clattering hoofs is heard behind;
Old Mose pricked up his ears and sniffed the air;
The deacon mused: “Some racers, I declare!
Fast horse, fast man, fast speeds the life away,
While sluggish blood is slow to disobey!”
He closed the book; he'd read enough of psalms—
And, looking backward, spat upon his palms,
Then grabbed the sagging reins: “Land sakes alive!
It's late, Jerushee, guess I'd better drive!”

The wife suspects there's something on his mind;
Adjusts her spectacles and looks behind:
“Pull out, good Silas, let that sinner past
Who breaks the Sabbath day by drivin' fast!
What pretty horses; he's some city chap;
My, how he drives; he'll meet with some mishap!
Be quick thar, Silas; further to the side;
He's comin'; thank the Lord the road is wide!
Jes look at Mose; if he ain't in fer war!
Say, Silas, what on earth you bracin' for?
Old man, have you forgot what day it is?”
“Git up thar, Mose! Jerushee, mind yer biz!”
“Upon my soul, look how that nag's a-pacin'
Why, Silas, dear, I do believe you're racin’!
Land sakes alive, what will the people say?
Good Deacon Jones a-racin', Sabbath day!”

“Jerushee, now you hold yer pious tongue,
And save yer voice until the hymns are sung!
Make haste unto the Lord; that's the command;
We're bound fer church—I trust you understand!”
“But goin' to church, good Silas, racin' so,
Will bring us into heaven mighty slow!”
“Hush up, Jerushee, else you'll make us late;
Gelong thar, Moses—strike yer winnin' gait!
God gave him speed and now's his time to show it;
It that's a sin, I never want to know it.”

A loving wife to acquiescence used,
Jerusha soon begins to get enthused.
Said she: “Don't leave the church folk disappointed,
Nor let the ungodly beat the Lord's anointed!”
“You're right, Jerushee, thar yer head is level,
In life's long race the saint must beat the devil;
Though on this Hebrew horse depend we must
To keep the Christian from the sinner's dust.
That's right, Jerushee, give old Mose the birch,
Fer here's a race: The world ag'in' the church;
Both Testaments are at it fer their lives—
The Old one pacin' while the New one drives;
And Satan's found at last all he can do
To tackle both the Gentile and the Jew.”

The stranger's horses come at such a pace
They dash ahead as if to take the race.
“The jig is up, Jerushee; guess he'll beat;
He's in the lead and Mose is off his feet.”
“What talk is that? Now, Silas, don't you scoff;
How can he jig if all his feet are off?
And now you say he's struck his gait at last,
I feared he'd strike on suthin', goin' so fast.”
The stranger cries: “Come on, old Sanctimony,
Old wife, old wagon, and old rack-a-bony!”
Jerusha's dander's up; Jerusha 's mad;
She grabs her bonnet and applies the gad.
And Mose at last has struck his old-time speed;
For once the Jew and Gentile are agreed.

Around the church the gathered country folk
Observe: “The Sabbath day is bein' broke.”
With eager eye and half-averted face,
Though some condemn, yet all observe the race.
“Land sakes!” cries one, “I 'll bet ye ten t' tew
It's Deacon Jones a-drivin' that ar Jew.”
“I can't bet much, but here's my life upon it—
That thar's Jerushee—know her by the bonnet!”
Along the dusty road the horses speed,
And inch by inch old Moses takes the lead.
Jerusha gets excited, now she's winning,
And all her former anger dies a-grinning.
“Come on, old Disbelief, old Satan's crony,
Don't lag behind on any ceremony!
Take my advice: Before you give much sass
Jes turn yer horses out on Sunday grass.”

Old Mose had forged ahead at such a rate
The deacon could n't stop him at the gate;
The more he pulled the faster Mose would go;
Jerusha grabbed one line and hollered: “Whoa!”
Which swung him in; the buggy with a crash,
Swinging against the horse-block, went to smash.
The pastor said: “I hope you broke no bones,
Although you broke the Sabbath, Deacon Jones.”
“Don't blame this onto Sile,” Jerusha said:
“But on that hoss; you know he's Jewish bred,
An' won't do nothin' Saturday but rest;
On Sunday he breaks loose like all possessed.
At least we're here and safe, therefore rejoice,
But I shall sing no more, I've strained my voice!”
“I thought 't would break,” they heard the pastor say,
“It has been cracked for many, many a day.”