On Sunday evening we to chapel go
Along the road, and sit six in a row,
And listen to the organ’s wheezy flow.
The preacher is a man of many parts;
He runs a farm with horses, sheep and carts;
And breaking hedges is one of his arts.
He thunders from the pulpit about sin,
His face all twisted in a fiendish grin,
But to be neighbourly can ne’er begin.
He is a man who cannot give or take,
But has a wife quite different, who can bake
The best of country scones and custard cake;
And so we listen to him for her sake.