BALLAD OF THE BACK ROAD FARMER

Our parson, he has left this town

So he went down

To where the farms are not all stone,

Where cattle are more beef than bone.

He’s settled there, seems full of cheer,

Though missing friends that he’d made here.

Our new man came from Barbot Lake,

A good impression he did make;

His sermons give us all some thought,

Most folks are pleased with what they got.

He visits all his scattered flock,

They love to have him stop and talk;

But I am not quite sure that he

Is just the man that best suits me;

For when I’m dozing in my pew,

(For that’s what Sarah says I do)

He’ll speak with voice so soft and low

That off to dreamland I will go.

Then just as I begin to snore

He’ll open up and start to roar

In voice so loud the walls do shake

And startles me till I awake.

Then Sarah’s elbow jabs my vest,

They both combine to steal my rest;

But soon his voice drops low and then

My head will start to nod again,

Till once again he makes me jump

With voice as loud as judgment’s trump.

Now, parson, if these lines you see,

Please hearken to my plaintive plea;

Please try to keep me wide awake,

Or let me sleep, for goodness sake! – H.M. Self, Bancroft.