DEACON BROWN.

DEACON BROWN.
276.9

A plous man was Deacon Brown,
He never raged or swore;
A cyclone blew his kitchen down
And through his orchard tore,
But when he rose up somewhat dazed
And took a long, full breath and gazed
Upon the havoc that was wrought
Me uttered not a single shrill,
Profane remark about it. Still,
I wonder what he thought?

The deacon’s gray mare ran away
And badly scattered things;
The road was littered up that day
With huhs and spokes and springs.
The deacon crawled out from the wreck
And felt his brow and rubbed his neck.
And when the foamy mare was caught
He kept his thin lips tightly shut
And stood there saying nothing.
But I wonder what he thought?

The deacon had a daughter whe
Eloped, one moonless night,
With Ebenezer Pettigrew.
A shiftless, worthless wight.
The deacon did not chase the pair:
Next day he sat with rumpled hair
And furrowed brow and saying naught;
Sometimes he clenched his fists, ’tis true,
And many a long, deep sigh he drew.
I wonder what he thought?