The Methodist

Says Tom to Jack, 'Tis very odd,
These representatives of God,
In colour, way of life, and evil,
Should be so very like the devil'.
Jack, understand, was one of those 
Who mould religion in the nose,
A red-hot Methodist; his face 
Was full of puritanic grace,
His loose lank hair, his slow gradation, 
Declared a late regeneration;
Among the daughters long renowned.
For standing upon holy ground;
Never in carnal battle beat,
Though sometimes forced to a retreat.
But Catcott, hero as he is,
Knight of incomparable phiz,
When pliant doxy seems to yield, 
Courageously forsakes the field.
Jack, or to write more gravely, John, 
Through hills of Wesley's works had gone; 
Could sing one hundred hymns by rote, 
Hymns which will sanctify the throat:
But some indeed composed so oddly,
You’d swear 'twas bawdy songs made godly.