Poem By Robert Kirkland Kernighan
Of all the saints within my ken
(Of them I hardly know enough),
I think God always chooses men
Who once were known as rather tough.
The story thro' my mem'ry croons :
These saints, once on a time, were ' off ;'
God hunted thro' the beer saloons,
And whiskey dives, for John B. Gough.
The fiercest of the Pharisees
The bloody-handed ruffian, Saul :
He heard his Lord, and from his knees
Arose, the great Apostle Paul.
The Three went up thro' Canaan's land
The story in The Book occurs
In danger from a bigot band :
A harlot hid His messengers.
Did holier women hear the call ?
Don't know ! The facts are simply these
A harlot let them from the wall,
And saved the threatened refugees.
THE KHAN'S CANTICLES.
A man ! the serpent's head to bruise ;
A man ! a man ! he 's hard to get !
I never knew my Lord to choose
A sniv'ling holy Willie yet !
But when my Lord hath found His man,
To do His work, and do it well,
Upon a strange and wondrous plan,
He takes His champion down to hell.
And leaves him there in grief and pain ;
'Mid malice, envy, hatred, spleen
Then brings him forth to earth again,
To tell the world what he has seen.
My granny oft to me hath said :
' These men are choosed to set to rights
The mess that, every day, is made
By windy, loud-lunged blatherskites.'