'TWAS Sunday morn at a stylish church
Not a hundred miles away,
Where the fashion and wealth of a seaside town
Assembled to praise and pray.
The church was fair to a sinner's eye,
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The chancel was deep and dark,
The organ new, and a handsome priest
To kindle the holy spark.
The seats were finished with chiselled oak,
Well cushioned, inviting, and soft.
Ten thousand, 't is said, was paid for the choir
That sang in the organ-loft.
The bells in the tower no longer swing,
The sexton looks grave and neat;
The carriages empty the sinners out,
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