I received an 'anonymously' written poem from an admirer of my husband this morning and thought you may enjoy reading it...my warmest thanks go out to the author of this masterpiece!
The Highlander Parson Named Joe
Antiquity boasted its Augustine,
And England had her Tyndale,
The Puritans, Foxe, and the Scots had Knox,
But for the best listen to my tale.
The last real Frenchman was Calvin,
The rest of them moved to the States,
Although Lafayette made a good show of it,
Madame Guillotine finished his mates.
En Deutschland, sie haben Bach und Luther,
Uber alles, sie est zehr fantastisch
But compared to our “am besten Held”
Zie “Fatherland” is simply cold fish.
In America, our heroes ain’t dandies,
They don’t come from blue blood or pedigree,
And they’re just as liable to quote you the Bible,
Then boast of a Latin degree.
In general, they shun the big cities,
With all their pomp and great fuss,
They prefer the quiet of country life,
And a pickup truck to a bus.
They hunt from the trees like savages,
And roast their kill au jus,
But they’ll clean up for church on Sunday,
And put away mead and their hooch.
It’s from this stock comes our hero,
With his thick “Shakespearian” drawl.
And his powerful frame puts the fairies to shame,
And makes the “enlightened” crawl.
It’s not that he’s brash or a bully,
He really is quite a nice fellow,
A preacher, by trade, without the parade,
And bold as a lion—but not yellow.
He comes from the hills and the mines,
He’s the pride of Appalachia,
And sure as Pete, he has all his teeth.
Which for Rednecks --a feat let me tell ya!
But, oh, when that man mounts the pulpit,
And opens the Word to be read,
The congregation grows silent,
As the preacher in black bows his head.
And the powerful man from the mountains,
With eloquence to rival the Sages,
Trembles at each inspired verse,
As tears trickle on the pages.
His name, you would think from this tale,
Is descended from kings clad in mail,
But truth be told, the man we know,
Is the Highlander Parson named Joe.