Udgorn Seion, 1853 (Vol. 5):321-24
CONVERSATION AMONG A MEMBER, A REVEREND, A VICAR,
AND A SAINT.
TUNE—“Belisle March.”
A member.
THERE are horrid sad signs,
And grievous events
ahead;
The pregnant air is
heavy-laden,
And the day of wrath
is nigh.
Swift lightning darts, and
flame-red shoots,
Thunder roars;
The family of scorn and
blasphemy,
Will have no place to
hide now;
Who will listen to my plaint? I have
not a minute’s pleasure;
The troubles of adversity
destroy my life;
Oh what sorrow I
bear.
What shall I say when is
poured upon me,
The heaviest sad
shower,
For opposing, and refusing
to believe
The
Gospel of Jesus Christ?
It’s time for me to wake up, and
avoid the judgment;
There is no refuge for me, nor day of saving,
Deliverance though I
apply myself:
Willed religion destroys me daily,
Restless as the
plague:
Oh, from it I flee, I run
for life,
To
the Saints’ pure religion.
A Reverend.
Hark, man, slow down; what
is this gnawing,
And
this tiresome inflammation?
Was it the wicked Saints,
the wanton host,
That wounded your
breast?
Believe only that, you
false prophets,
The old family of the
great utter darkness,
And leave for the vile of
Mormon’s ugly clan,
The grey sweepings of
the ground:
There are pleasant omens of delight
night and day,
There are blind watchmen on
Zion’s towers,
A great brightening
will come.
Oh children of darkness, do
not lose heart,
Peace is increasing;
In a secure state you
await,
Summer is
approaching.
The strong plays his part to uphold
the weak man’s burden,
Superstition’s day is
improving daily,
Soon you will be left
in peace:
In the charming name of my
imaginary God,
I say with brotherly
intent,
[p. 322]
Despite the Saints, in the river of death,
You shall drown all
your faults.
A Member.
Neither the threats nor the
promises
Of the weak false
teachers have
Any charm for my woe, that
can cleanse my life,
Nor grace for me to
obtain;
And their theology does not
minister
Any beneficial
medicine,
The fraud and carnage of
Reverend dignity,
Hinder my recovery.
Though promising fine health, I’m in
a nest of thorns,
As if among dragons full of
stings,
And their dire
tearing;
Though shouting freedom,
I’m in adversity,
And will ever live in
woe;
Though shouting refuge,
I’ll go to Gehenna,
If
I stay where I am.
The commerce of great hell, is
killing earth’s inhabitants,
And there is outrage, woe,
and groaning,
Now with no comfort;
The Reverends, like vexing
wolves.
Are preying greedily,
In the guise of mercy for
my life,
Even so it turns to
death.
A Reverend.
Oh! you
feeble-minded, pitiable, unclean wretch,
Your day is
comfortless,
Your head is spinning from
loathsome creed,
Fleeing
to disown the faith.
The old unruly faith, the
godly sects,
Enticing partisan
gift,
Which
puts scores into tight chains,
Morning
and afternoon.
The old faith of Mormon, which
challenges the four winds,
It must be that which has
confused you,
And
charmed you on its way.
Despite ugly butchery, the
killing, and the rending,
There’s no way to
damage it,
Its awful strengths now are
shaking,
Nearly
all the world’s powers.
The world is boiling hot, like the
mouth of sheer hell;
Woe and fright follow on
the heels
Of the dullard and
the wise:
By Baal and Dagon, now must
be stopped,
The old religion of great Mormon;
Deliver me from it, it has
plagued me,
And
entirely brought me down.
[p. 323
A Vicar.
Oh, fie, reverend, what a
weak and infirm,
And irritable one is
your cry;
We priests are sorry that
the Mormons,
See our deceit and
treachery.
I’ll staunchly fire paper
bullets
Through the fortress
of their rampart;
With my rush sword I’ll put
an end,
To their fate
forthwith;
With my strong arm now, as weighty
as a great feather,
I’ll pursue the Saints,
children of Heaven,
And drive like some
giant;
Through the power of Our Father and the Common Prayer,
I shall be the Vicar,
With my thin palms in the
mighty sides
Of the Saints night
and day:
To the beast I’ll give a share of
the product of my weak soul,
To the god of the darkness
the banner can rise
As
high as the church bell-tower.
In pain and anguish the
Vicar of Merthyr,
Has a headache which
persists;
Like a clumsy boar I shall
once more,
Root around Aberdare.
A Saint.
The Reverends, the silly
Vicars,
The blind teachers are
Groaning aloud, shouting in
pain,
From Liverpool to Cardiff,
From Aberdare to Aberdaron,
From Anglesey to Abergavenny,
For the blood of the
innocents; these ineffective ones
Wish to destroy the
servants of God;
The days are coming when false Babel will be seen
Chirping like baby birds,
Soon it will
languish;
The day of tribulation will
come—woe is the crown of pride,
And the sons of
wicked oppression,
Will be completely
overthrown, trodden like a dung-heap,
And
swallowed in the dust.
The stone that was hewn from the
mountain, not by hand,
The day of its movement is
in its beginning,
Shattering is nigh;
The cruel host will be like
withered stubble,
Or charred sticks
from the fire;
The proud will be trampled,
and the idols crushed,
And
smashed to smithereens.
[p. 324]
And behold, now in mount Zion,
The refuge of the men
of God,
There will be deliverance
and abundant salvation
For all who love to
live;
When plagues come and
horrid pestilence,
And famine, present
marks,
The Saints while sheltering
will prosper,
In
the day of the great tempest.
To the beast of evil terror, and his
family great and small,
Like withered firewood
across the fields,
Jacob’s house will be
the fire;—
To all the kingdoms of the
nations,
Who publicly do wrong,
Like meadow gossamer, and
mountain sweepings,
Joseph’s house will
be a flame;
Henceforth the Saints’ light, will
increase to a great size;
The redeemed will be on mount Zion,
Far from pain and
disease;
Banners of freedom will
also wave,
Throughout the whole
wide world,
The voice of song and
praise will loudly sound,
In
joy across the earth.
Llanelli. DEWI ELFED.
