DEACON JOHN

DEACON John Davis rode his mare
Across the meadows so fresh and fair;
Rode to a cottage, old and brown,
That stood by a brook in Lindley town,
And asked, with a shame-faced, modest mien,
For an interview with Isabel Green.
And Isabel, who had seen him come,
Said, “Tell the Deacon I ain’t to hum.”

For Isabel wore a Grecian bend,
And loved a young man with no end
Of soap-locks, clustering round a face
On which much hair left little space
For kissing; while a huge mustache
Made it close work to rastle his hash.

“I think,” said red-lipped Isabel Green,
“That Deacon John is real mean
To ask a girl like me t’engage
To marry a man that’s twice her age.”

The Deacon said, “She may be right
I walked accordin’ tu the light
I had. I’m only thirty-eight,
And well to du, an’ strong, an’ straight
I would hev let her keep the puss—
She may go furder, an’ fare wuss.”

And the Deacon straddled his mare agin,
Only saying, “It might hev bin.”

And Isabel wedded Charley Cross,
Who ran exceedingly strong on hoss,
And made his living by little games,
From which arise unpleasant names.
He played at poker and sledge and whist,
With all the games on the gambler’s list.
He fought the tiger with might and main,
And sometimes got most bitterly slain.

But then he had such eyes and hair,
And walked the streets with a princely air;
Handled his cane in a foreign style,
And had such a bandit look and smile.

Oh sweet to a silly maiden’s view
Is a waxed mustache of sable hue.
And dearly the maiden loves to doat
On a handsome man in a bob-tailed coat.

But sad and sickening is the life
That waits on every gambler’s wife.
And any damsel will rue the day
She marries the man who lives by play.

Isabel followed her foolish choice,
And learned to tremble at his voice.
And her soul grew sick from time to time
At the dirty deed, half trick, half crime,

As she thought of quiet Lindley town,
With its little cottage, snug and brown,
And the peaceful, healthy, happy life
She might have led as the Deacon’s wife.

One night, at “Natchez under the Hill,”
It came to an end, as such things will
There was a scrimmage—which I believe
Arose from aces, in Charley’s sleeve.

No need to tell of the savage fight
That wakened the town at dead of night;
Of pistol shots, and bowies drawn,
And a shallow grave at early dawn;
But Isabel, widowed and forlorn
Went back to the spot where she was born.

And often, with thoughts too deep for words,
She watches the Deacon’s flocks and herds,
Or weeps in silence to see him ride
With a blooming Deaconess at his side,
Then turns to her wash-tub once agin—
Only saying, “It might hev bin.”