AROUND our Center Meetinghouse There's nothing now that "centers," And Mr. Bat is jest about The only soul that enters; No boys between the sermons hold A gingersnap carouse— There ain't no sermons anymore In Center Meetinghouse. 'Twas built to be a "Union Church," And said so on the gable, But years ago the sign fell off And stood in Bagley's stable; A Poultney peddler bought the bell, I think his name was Krause, And faith and form have both forsook The Center Meetinghouse. The steps have gone, the blinds jest hang, The weathervane is twisted; The stoves with cobwebs, rust and dust Are crusted and encysted; The light the fathers lit with love Their children dim and douse, And where religion centered once There's jest a Meetinghouse. It used to be a Town House, too, And once, at Freeman's Meeting, Old Deacon Stubbs give 'Squire Devoe A pretty thorough beating; They knocked the pulpit off its base, The 'Squire, he lost his blouse, And all the Piscopals marched out And left the Meetinghouse. At last they took the pews away And oiled the floor for dancing; And once I went, or should have went, Except for Mary Lansing; Then come some medium whose "control" Was through a Hindu mouse— That ended "services" within The Center Meetinghouse. I'm 'fraid our Center Meetinghouse Is simply one of many, And that where hill-town preaching throve There isn't much of any; The churches take to Main street now, Like high-toned throats to grouse— I hope they don't flat out as flat As our poor Meetinghouse. |