The social states of human kinds Are made by multitudes of minds. And after multitudes of years A little human growth appears Worth having, even to the soul Who sees most plain it’s not the whole. This state is dull and evil, both, I keep it in the path of growth; You think the Church an outworn fetter; Kane, keep it, till you’ve built a better. And keep the existing social state; I quite agree it’s out of date, One does too much, another shirks, Unjust, I grant; but still ... it works. To get the whole world out of bed And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed, To work, and back to bed again, Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain. Then, as to whether true or sham That book of Christ, Whose priest I am; The Bible is a lie, say you, Where do you stand, suppose it true? Good-bye. But if you’ve more to say, My doors are open night and day. Meanwhile, my friend, ’twould be no sin To mix more water in your gin. We’re neither saints nor Philip Sidneys, But mortal men with mortal kidneys.’ He took his snuff, and wheezed a greeting, And waddled off to mothers’ meeting; I hung my head upon my chest, I give old purple parson best. For while the Plough tips round the Pole The trained mind outs the upright soul, As Jesus said the trained mind might, Being wiser than the sons of light, But trained men’s minds are spread so thin They let all sorts of darkness in; Whatever light man finds they doubt it, They love not light, but talk about it. But parson’d proved to people’s eyes That I was drunk, and he was wise; And people grinned and women tittered, And little children mocked and twittered So blazing mad, I stalked to bar To show how noble drunkards are, And guzzled spirits like a beast, To show contempt for Church and priest, Until, by six, my wits went round Like hungry pigs in parish pound. At half-past six, rememb’ring Jane, I staggered into street again With mind made up (or primed with gin) To bash the cop who’d run me in; For well I knew I’d have to cock up My legs that night inside the lock-up, And it was my most fixed intent To have a fight before I went. Our Fates are strange, and no one knows his; Our lovely Saviour Christ disposes. Jane wasn’t where we’d planned, the jade. She’d thought me drunk and hadn’t stayed. So I went up the Walk to look for her And lingered by the little brook for her, And dowsed my face, and drank at spring, And watched two wild duck on the wing.