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The Recreations of a Country Parson by Andrew Kennedy Hutchison Boyd
page 92 of 418 (22%)
Eighty full years, content, I trow,
Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,
And trod those dark streets day by day,
Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,
Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,
Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me
They are all comely and fair to see--
They have old faces--each one doth tell
A tale of its own, that doth like me well--
Sad or merry, as it may be,
From the quaint old book of my history.
And, friends, when this weary pain is past,
Fain would I lay me to rest at last
In their very midst;--full sure am I,
How dark soever be earth and sky,
I shall sleep softly--I shall know
That the things I loved so here below
Are about me still--so never care
That my last home looketh all bleak and bare--
Good friends, let it be there!

Some persons appear to think that it argues strength of mind and
freedom from unworthy prejudice, to profess great indifference as
to what becomes of their mortal part after they die. I have met with
men who talked in a vapouring manner about leaving their bodies to
be dissected; and who evidently enjoyed the sensation which such
sentiments produced among simple folk. Whenever I hear any man
talk in this way, my politeness, of course, prevents my telling him
that he is an uncommonly silly person; but it does not prevent my
thinking him one. It is a mistake to imagine that the soul is the
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