Classic Poem

Pass on to Isaac Brown, a man elect,
Wesleyan stout, our wealthiest of his sect;
Who bought and still buys land, none quite sees how,
Whilst all his shrewdness and success allow.
On Crashton's mortgage he has money lent,
He takes a quiet bill at ten per cent,
The local public business much he sways,
He's learned in every neighbour's means and ways,
For comfort cares, for fashion not a whit,
Nor if the gentry to their ranks admit.
All preachers love him; he can best afford
The unctuous converse and the unctuous board;
Ev'n the poor nag, slow-rattling up the road
In ancient rusty gig a pious load,
Wags his weak tail, and strikes a brisker trot,
Approaching Brownstown, Isaac's pleasant lot.
For though at Poor House Board was never known
A flintier Guardian-angel than good Brown,
As each old hag and shivering child can tell, —
Go dine with Isaac, and he feeds you well.

And hear him pray, with fiercely close-shut eyes!
Gentle at first the measured accents rise,
But soon he waxes loud, and storms the skies.
Deep is the chest, and powerful bass the voice,
The language of a true celestial choice;
Handorgan-wise the holy phrases ground
Go turning and returning round and round;
The sing-song duly runs from low to high;
The choruss'd groans at intervals reply;
Till after forty minutes' sweat and din,
Leaving perhaps too little prayer within,
Dear Brother Brown, athletic babe of grace,
Resumes his bench, and wipes his reeking face.