The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out,
There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt.
It's just a plain straightforward tale -- a tale that lets you know
The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago.

It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock;
You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock,
The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread,
And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead.

The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night;
The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light;
The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp --
I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp!

~But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know
How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago.~




The Reverend Mullineux



I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight,
And his height at five-foot-two,
With a face as plain as an eight-day clock
And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock --