Now Bob Munn in his folly expected On rejinin’ his guests ter find The work he’d mapped out for the Master, Perform’d by His Infernite mind. [Illustration] But not so. On reachin’ the tea-drinkers, Whar he trusted ter git his wish, No pillars of salt war thar; but _harf of Munn’s carcass war cheng’d ter a fish_! Bob Munn soon diskiver’d it war wrongful, And, chagrin’d tuk ter the water: Becomin’ an amphibious anermal, The first mermaid war his daughter. Two centuries have pars’d away since then; The mermaids have multerplied, And, old mariners say, it all comes from Lovin’ fish premerturely dri’d! And, although I won’t vouch for it, they say This is why the Yankees like cod, Car’fully season’d, and salted and cur’d By the means pervided by God. BUT THE MORAL—ye see it war sinful Ter tempt the Almighty ter fast! And this story will show ye how _He got_ _The best of that Yankee at last_! Whenever ye hear tell of a mermaid Be warn’d by the sin of poor Bob, Who attempted ter stock the kerds upon His Maker, but—botch’d the job! [Illustration] MY RERLIGION. I do not gamble much on Rerligion, Nor show a sanctermonious look Down here under my hat when they mention The Bible—that spiritu’l book— What’s a guide-board ter every stray traveler In the pathway leadin’ ter God; I do not clasp my hands in dervotion, And at the church minister nod,— Extollin’ his favorite utterances; Nor jine in the fervent “Amen,” That the folks in the meetin’ may think me One of them most pious laymen. Nor go down on my marrers durin’ pr’ar, Raise my eyes ter Heaven and cry Ter God ter pour out His Holy Spirit, And bless me with grace from on High! In meetin’ I do not yell out “Glory!” “Bless the Lord who died for sinners!” “Come down, dear Jesus; I’ll clasp ye right here!” Nor ’nvite the parson ter dinners. I’ve sarch’d from Gen’ses ter Reverlation For a precerdent, but I can’t Find that Christ and His Erpostles have spent The Sabbath in boisterous rant! The knees of my Sabbath mornin’ trousers May not show same ermount of war’ As those of Deacon Horatio Sparling, Who’s worn holes in his’n at pra’r. [Illustration] _I may not show the white of my eyes, like The Deacon who looks for rerward For countin’ the number of the rarfters, When they pars the cup of the Lord!_ I am not in the habit of tellin’ Sinners they’ll be left in the lurch, In the last great day when Jerhover comes, If thar not members of the church! Or skeerin’ ’em with brimstone and fire, And the vengeance of thar Maker, If they turn thar backs on the Pascal Lamb, And fail ter be a pertaker!