The Local Preacher Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABAB CDCD EFGF HIHI GGGG GJGJ CHCH KLKL AGAG HMHM NHNH| Ay I'm a ranter so at least fowks say | A |
| Happen they'd tell t' same tale o' t' postle Paul | B |
| I've ranted fifty yeer coom first o' May | A |
| An' niver changed my gospil through 'em all | B |
| - | |
| There's nowt like t' Blooid o' t' Lamb an' t' Fire o' Hell | C |
| To bring a hardened taistril to his knees | D |
| If fowks want more nor that then thou can tell | C |
| 'Em straight I've got no cure for their disease | D |
| - | |
| I willent thole this New Theology | E |
| That blends up Hell wi' Heaven sinners wi' saints | F |
| For black was black when I turned Methody | G |
| An' white was white i' souls as weel as paints | F |
| - | |
| That's awlus t' warp an' t' weft o' my discourse | H |
| An' awlus will be lang as I can teach | I |
| If fowks won't harken tul it then of course | H |
| They go to church and hear t' owd parson preach | I |
| - | |
| His sarmon's like his baccy sweet an' mild | G |
| Fowk's ommost hauf asleep at t' second word | G |
| By t' Mass they're wick as lops ay man an' child | G |
| When I stan' up an' wrastle wi' the Lord | G |
| - | |
| Nay I'm not blamin' parson I'll awant | G |
| Preachin's his trade same way as millin's mine | J |
| I' trade you've got to gie fowks what they want | G |
| An' that is mostly sawcum meshed reet fine | J |
| - | |
| Tak squire theer he don't want no talk o' Hell | C |
| He likes to hark to t' parable o' t' teares | H |
| He reckons church is wheat that's gooid to sell | C |
| But chapil's nobbut kexes thorns an' brears | H |
| - | |
| Squire's lasses they can't do wi' t' Blooid o' t' Lamb | K |
| They're all for t' blooid o' t' foxes like our Bob | L |
| The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn | K |
| Church fowks wid out me mellin' on His job | L |
| - | |
| But gie me chapil lasses gone astray | A |
| Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet | G |
| An' I'll raise Cain afore I go away | A |
| If I don't gie 'em t' glent o' t' Gospil leet | G |
| - | |
| I'll mak 'em sit on t' penitential stooils | H |
| An' roar as loud as t' buzzer down at t' mill | M |
| I'll mak 'em own that they've bin despert fooils | H |
| Wi' all their pride o' life a bitter pill | M |
| - | |
| I've mony texts but all to one point keep | N |
| Same as all t' becks flow down to one saut sea | H |
| Damnation an' salvation goats an' sheep | N |
| That's t' Bible gospil that thou'll get thro' me | H |
Frederic William Moorman
(1)
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About The Local Preacher
The Local Preacher is a poem by Frederic William Moorman. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.
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