Church-going Tim
Tim Black is bedridden, you say?
Well now, I'm sorry. Poor old Tim!
There's not in all the place to-day
A soul as will not pity him.
These twenty years, come hail, come snow,
Come winter cold, or summer heat.
Week after week to church he'll go
On them two hobbling sticks for feet.
These years he's gone on crutches. Yet
One never heard the least complaint.
And see how other men will fret
At nothing! Tim was quite a saint.
And now there's service every day,
I say they kep' it up for him;
We busier ones, we keep away—
There's mostly no one there but Tim.
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