The Wit of Women

An aesthetic innovation!”

Of a sonnet

Or a bonnet?

This was hard.

Both were put together neatly,

Harmonizing very sweetly,

But the critic crushed completely

Not the bonnet,

Or the sonnet,

But the bard.

WANTED, A MINISTER.

BY MRS. M.E.W. SKEELS.

We’ve a church, tho’ the belfry is leaning,

They are talking I think of repair,

And the bell, oh, pray but excuse us,

‘Twas talked of, but never’s been there.

Now, “Wanted, a real live minister,”

And to settle the same for life,

We’ve an organ and some one to play it,

So we don’t care a fig for his wife.

We once had a pastor (don’t tell it),

But we chanced on a time to discover

That his sermons were writ long ago,

And he had preached them twice over.

How sad this mistake, tho’ unmeaning,

Oh, it made such a desperate muss!

Both deacon and laymen were vexed,

And decided, “He’s no man for us.”

And then the “old nick” was to pay,

“Truth indeed is stranger than fiction,”

His prayers were so tedious and long,

People slept, till the benediction.

And then came another, on trial,

Who actually preached in his gloves,

His manner so awkward and queer,

That we settled him off and he moved.

And then came another so meek,

That his name really ought to ‘ve been Moses;

We almost considered him settled,

When lo! the secret discloses,

He’d attacks of nervous disease,

That unfit him for every-day duty;

His sermons, oh, never can please,

They lack both in force and beauty.

Now, “wanted, a minister,” really,

That won’t preach his old sermons over,

That will make short prayers while in church,

With no fault that the ear can discover,

That is very forbearing, yes very,

That blesses wherever he moves—

Not too zealous, nor lacking for zeal,

That preaches without any gloves!

Now, “wanted, a minister,” really,

“That was born ere nerves came in fashion,”

That never complains of the “headache,”

That never is roused to a passion.