There's a parson comes to see us once a month at Wareko;
Though I ain't much shook on parsons, 'e's the whitest man I know.
'E travels round the stations, an' without no fuss or noise,
'E's fairly worked 'is way into the hearts of all the boys.
'E's not the snivellin', cantin' sort, like most o' those I know;
But if 'e thinks yer goin' crook 'e'll up an' tell ye so.
There ain't no beatin' round the bush, nor mincin' things with 'im;
'E tells ye straight jest wot 'e thinks; an' we call 'im Father Jim.

An' 'e tells us that the world is like a rampin' r'arin' colt.
"But mount it boys," 'e ses, "an' see ye git a good firm holt;
Jes' tighten up the girths o' faith an' see they aint too thin,
Or else 'e'll land ye on yer 'ed, into the mire o' sin;
Then grip the pads of charity with all yer might," ses 'e,
"And 'ang on to the monkey strap o' Christianitee."

'E's not no prayin' faddist, nor a bloomin' temp'rance crank;
But when 'e prays 'e talks out straight in language plain an' frank.
"Why, 'ave yer glass of beer," 'e ses, "or two, or three, or four,
But when you've 'ad enough knock-off; there's no sense drinkin' more."
'E'll meet you in a pub, an' shout, and 'ave 'is glass o' beer;
But if yer always inclined to git upon yer ear,
"Come on," ses 'e, "it's gittin' late, I go your way, you know."
It's no use tryin' on a bluff, you simply 'AVE to go.

'E's made old Mac quit swearin', an' converted Whisky Dan;
An' all the shearers in the shed are with 'im to a man.
'E's pals with all the fellers, from the youngsters to the boss,
An' the Chinee cook's beginnin' fer to doubt 'is fav'rite Joss.
'E'll lend a 'and at musterin' and join in any fun;
An' sit the biggest outlaw that we 'ave upon the run.

"Like draftin' sheep, me lads, upon the judgement day, 'twill be,
And either to the right or left you'll 'AVE to go," ses 'e.
"If you 'ave the devil's ear-mark 'e'll take you in 'is fold,
An' ye won't want no thick fleeces there to keep away the cold;
Into the yards o' hell ye'll all be bundled in a heap,
An' there ain't no pleasant pastures where the devil runs 'is sheep."

"Then see the girth of faith are strong, and buckled safe and tight;
An' stick into the saddle, lads, with all yer bloomin' might;
Agrip the pads o' charity fer all ye worth," ses 'e,
"And 'ang on to the monkey strap o' Christianitee."

"C.J.D."
The Critic, 29 June 1901, p10