Buchanan County bulletin. [volume] (Independence, Iowa) 1869-1891, 1872-05-03
DEACON BROWN.
A Dialeotio Excuse for . Good Man.

Ir's Deacon Brown yer askin' about!
He haiat been round for year;
They planted him last kibbage time,
Which is why he isn't here.
Fur p'raps we've observed as gin'ral thing
Thet this lynn under ground
Fur year or two don't make one feel
Pretty much like slOshin' round
Ills kerricter, chr What, old Deac. Brown!
Well, I'm ruther 'shamed to say
Thet he want much the sort o. saint
Sot up by Harte and Hay.
He never cussd in his nat'ral life
mention THE with cOnsarn-
He didn't know how, though he might a know'd
Efhe'd cared to larn.
But it makes it rough fur the chap thet gets
The writin' Of his biOg
To hev ter confess he's slingin' ink
Over sich bump on log.
Who didn't amount to shuck In row,
Who never was ont on tear.
And for tacklin' q neat little game OF "draw,"
Couldn't tell full from pair.
Fur the Deac. just war a common cuss
o. the mOst Ornarieet kind,
Who never looked out o. the Winder O SIN,
And dursn't raise blind. Sc
Ye've NO idee how pAfvarse he was,
I've hearn him reinark-this limb
Thet though he war raised In Christian land,
one wife war enough fur him.
His canal. boat onct-it was years ago,
When drivers both druv and stecred--
Run agin the bank jest above Penn Yam,
An some O. the help got skeered.
The pilot sOt In the ingin- room,
And helt his nozzle and swOrc,
But the Deac. spread hisself on the gang plank,
handin' the ladies ashore.
P'raps tho Deac. Of he'd he'd the rearin o. some,
Would panned out better that trip;
But, considerin' Of his brOughtens up,
He didn't quite lose his grip.
0nfOrtuNet. like fuY the DeQC an me.
He'd careful rasin' to hum;
An yer can't 'spect much Of chap, yon know,
Onless he sprouts from slum.
Efhe'd been high toned gambolicr.
Or the rough Of mining camp,
With bushel Of sin in his kcrrictcr,
An touch OF Sairey Camp,
o. an injineer cr an injin thar
Any kind Of rum -histin lOut-
Peraps he 4 u done some pretty big thing
Fur me ter be splurgin' about
But he jest plugged on in no count way,
A lcadin' good square life,
TIL the war KEN on-then he pulled up stakes,
An said good by ter his wife.
I've hearn tell \ grittier man nor him
In battle never trOd,
An he didn't let down in the face Of Death,
Although he believed in God,
It's queer how he fout at Fredericksburg
The Dcac. jest went in wet,
A pray'n' an shoOti'n, an every time
A fctchin' his man, you bet.
Yet he want sustained by the sOothin thought,
When he fell-OctOber 'leventh-
That he'd knOck'd spots on The commandments,
An been special rough on the seventh
jest over beyond the turnip patch,
Some twenty holes yer kin gee,
Thct air filled by chaps who went from here
To fight gin General Lee.
They went from here bout plan!in' time,
They KEN back when corn was ripe, 1-.'
An we buried 'em by that walnut tree
All chaps of the Deacon's stripe.
Well croes over thar TO the old mans grave,
And guess I'll gettin' then
Yer pnrdiN, stranger, alters unrOOf
Atthc grave o that sort o. men,.
I've been gassin' away promiscusllke,
But now make bold ter say.
1t don't fOller on u mans Il sneak
'Cause he lives In a decent way.
l know some folks reck'n contrairy wise.
An cling their ink qnite free,
But they haint got holt the right end on It,
AccOrdih' to my idcc.
An that's why IvesOrt o been chippin In,
pedin' the Deacon'e excuse,
Fur you know we all can't be gamblers ard
thieves,
An all women needn't be loose.
-NeW York TsmtS.