THE OLD METHODIST'S TESTIMONY.
I PRAISE the Lord, my Christian friends,
That I am with you still,
Though standing like an old log house
Upon a west side-hill;
The music has gone out, you know;
The timbers have decayed;
But sunshine on em's just as warm
As when they first were laid. Almost a hundred years have passed
Since I was born, and then
'Twas only fifteen further on,
And I was born again.
I've seen the forest melt away;
Nice houses have been reared;
The world has quite outstripped the church,
I'm very much afeared. They used to tell a Methodist
As far as eye could scan;
No gewgaws on a woman then,
No dickey on a man;
But now our congregations are
So much by fashion led,
They look just like a rainbow
Wrecked upon a posy bed. The circuit riders of them days
Were not so fine and grand;
They took degrees in hauling logs
And clearing up the land;
But when one of 'em rose to preach,
I tell you we could smell
The fragrant flowers of Heaven
And the stifling smoke of hell. We had an "amen corner," too,
Beside the pulpit stairs,
And while he raised his sermon-bents,
We lifted with our prayers;
We threw in many a loud "Thank God!"
And were not obliged to go,
To give the Lord the glory,
To a class-room down below. The grand old quarterly meetings
Were to all the brethren dear,
Just like four green oases
In the desert of the year;
The people flocked from miles around;
My wife would take a score,
And after supper they would pray,
And sleep upon the floor. I know the world's a-moving on,
As Galileo said,
For now I rent a cushioned pew
To hear an essay read;
But when through stained-glass windows
The sun throws blue and gold,
I cannot help a-thinking how
The glory shone of old. They call me an "old fossil,"
And a "relic of the past,"
A "fogy" and a "croaker" too;
But this wont always last;
I tread a trembling isthmus
Where two seas of glory roll,
And soon the past and future bliss
Will swallow up the soul. And when I reach fair Canaan,
The Lord will doubtless see
That mansions in the city will
Not do for such as me;
So he will let me go among
The old-fashioned saints, I think,
And praise him neath the tree of life
Upon the river's brink.
—Nashville Christian Advocate.