The Portland daily press., 1872-04-15
POETRY.
DEACON BROWN
A Dialectic Excuse for Good Man.

A Dialectic Excuse for Good MAN.
BY "JoHN PAUL"
It's Deacon Brown yer askin' aboutY
He hain't been round for year,
They planted him last kibbage u"e' B.sa
Which Is why he isn't here. ,v,.o, .,,,.,
Fur p'raps we've obsarved as y gin raj tuihs
Thet thiIlyin' under ground
Fur n wear or two don't make one feel
PRETTY much like sloshin' round.
His kerricter, eb? What old Deac Brown?
Well, Pm ruther ,shamed to say
Tibet he want mnch the sort o. saint
Sot up by Harte or Hay.
He never cussed in his nat raj life
pention this with consarn- -
He didn 4 know how, though he might "a know'd
Ef he he'd cared to larn.
But it makes 1t rough fur the chap tibet gets
The writin' of his biog,
To hev to confess he's singing ink
Over SIGH bump on log, E-.
Who didn't amount to shucks IN row,
Who never war out on tear,
And fur tacklin' neat little game OF draw,
Couldn't tell a full from pair.
Fur the deac Just war common cuss
o. the most ornariest kind,
Who never looked out O. the winder O. sin,
And dursnt raise blind;
{e've no idee how parvarse he was,
I've hearn him remark-this limb!
p Thet though he war raised in a Christian land
One wife war enough for him.
His canal-boat onct-it was yers ago,
When drivers both druv and steered-
Run agin the bank jest above Penn Yam,
AM some o. the help got skeered;
The pilot sot in the ingine room,
And helt his nozzle and swore.
But the deac spread hisself at the gang-plank
A handin' the ladies ashore.
P'raps the deac If he'd had the rearin' o. some.
Would a. panned out better that trip;
But consderin' of his broughtens up,
He didn't quite lose his grip,
Onfortunit-like fur the deac an me-
He'd careful raisin' to hum;
An YOU can't spect much of q chap, yer know,
Onless he sprouts from slum.
Eff he'd been heightened gambolier,
Or the rough of a mining camp,
With bushel of sin in his kerricter,
An a touch of Sairey Camp,
Or an injineer or an injin thar
Any kind Of rum-hsting lout-
Per'aps he'd done some pretty big thing
Fur me ter be splurgin' about.
But he Jest plugged on in no count way
A leadin O good squar life,
Till the war kim 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 b'lieved In God.
It's queer how he fought at fredericksburg
The deac just went In wet,
prayin' an shootin', an every time
A fetchin' his man, you bet; .a
Yet he want sustained by the soothin' thought
When he fell-October ELEVENTH.
Thet he'd knocked spots out the commandments,
e An been special rough on the seventh. taFg
jest over beyont tibet turnip patch,
Some twenty holes yer kin see,
Tibet air filled by chaps who went from here
To fight gin Gineral Lee.
They went from here bout plantin' time,
7rhen back when corn was ripe,
An we bnried 'em by that walnut tree
All chaps of the deacon's stripe 7. e
Wen cross over thar to the old mans grave,
And guess I'll be Citing then -.
Yer pardin, stranger, alters unrOof
At the grave O. that sort % men,. aet'w
I've been gassin' away promiscous like, f \
But now make bold ter say,
1t don't foller on mans sneak
Cause he lives In a decent way, .sr.s sr
/ know some folks reck'n contrary-wise,
An sling their ink quite free,
But they hain't got holt the right end on it,
Accordin' to my idee
An thet's why I've sort oben chippin' in,
A pleadin's the deacon's excuse
Fur you know can't all be gamblers an thieves,
An all women needn't be loose.
-NeW York Times.
r = II