"WHY DON'T THE WORKING-MAN GO TO CHURCH?'
I DOANT go to Church, 'cause I cannot Bee the good,
And yet I'm none so sartain I should go there if I could ; For I does what I likes, and jest when I likes, d'yer see?
And I've none so great a liking for them seats called "Free."
I doant go to Church, 'cause my coat is getting old, And the big folks look and mutter, "Beggars, sure, is getting bold."
Maybe, some day up in heaven, if they get there, they will lam Them above don't stop to ask yer, if your coat has got a darn.
I doant go to Church, 'cause the place it be so grand, Fit for them wi' coach and 'osses, wi' great housen, and wi' land ; And then Parson he's so lamed, what a' means I cannot toll; Folk speaks plainer down at Chappel. How they du go on at Hell !
I doant go to Church, 'cause, wi' Squoire a' sitting there, I keep thinking what he called me, when he cotched me wi' a snare ;_ It were jest outside my garden, yet the names that he did call! Thief and poacher ! lawkamussy but a rabbut arter all !
Parson, he's a kind old gem'man, and his wife is kinder still, Wi' her tracs, and wi' her pudden, and her bottles when ye're ill; But it's not what I wants, to be tinkered when I'm down ; It's to get up, and to keep up, and 'ave summat o' my own.
That's the thing. And if the Boible (as them farmers du agree) Be agen poor folk a' rising, then I'll let the Boible be. Parson says, I'm but a haythen. Well, a toad 'ull love his hole. If he cared more for my body, praps I'd care more for my soul.
So I doant go to Church, 'cause I dunnot see the good ; But I takes a walk instead oft in the holler by the wood ; And my dawg he goes behind me, and I smoakes all the way ; He's a rare 'un still at rabbuts is my old dawg Tray.