Page:Poems and lyrics of the joy of earth.djvu/126

Rh Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart!
 * His heart!—where's the leg of the poor little maid!

Well, that's not enough; they must push her downstairs,
 * To make her go crooked: but why count the list?

If it's right to suppose that our human affairs
 * Are all ordered by heaven—there, bang goes my fist!

For if angels can look on such sights—never mind!
 * When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum.

The parson declares that her woes weren't designed;
 * But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come.

Lose a leg, save a soul—a convenient text;
 * I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of God.

When poor little Molly wants 'chastening,' why, next
 * The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.