He knows as much as all the saints an' calls religion flighty,
An' in his narrow world assumes the place o' God Almighty.
But don't expect too much o' God, it wouldn't be quite fair
If fer everything ye wanted ye could only swap a prayer;
I'd pray fer yours an' you fer mine an' Deacon Henry Hospur
He wouldn't hev a thing t' do but lay a-bed an' prosper.
If all things come so easy, Bill, they'd hev but little worth,
An' someone with a gift O' prayer 'ud mebbe own the earth.
It's the toil ye give t' git a thing - the sweat an' blood an' trouble
We reckon by - an' every tear'll make its value double.
There's a money O' the soul, my boy, ye'll find in after years,
Its pennies are the sweat drops an' its dollars are the tears;
An' love is the redeemin' gold that measures what they're worth,
An' ye'll git as much in Heaven as ye've given out on earth.
Fer the record o' yer doin' - I believe the soul is planned
With an automatic register t, tell jest how ye stand,
An' it won't take any cipherin' t' show that fearful day,
If ye've multiplied yer talents well, er thrown 'em all away.
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