She's little and modest and purty,
As red as a rose and as sweet;
Her children don't ever look dirty,
Her kitchen ain't no way but neat.
She's the kind of a woman ter cherish,
A help ter a feller through life,
Yet every old hen in the parish
Is down on the minister's wife.

'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it;
She always has had the idee
That the church was built so's she could run it,
'Cause Hawkins is deacon, yer see;
She thought that the whole congregation
Kept step ter the tune of her fife,
But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation
Applied ter the minister's wife.

Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited—
She thinks she's the whole upper crust;—
When she found the Smiths was invited
Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust.
"You can have all the paupers yer choose to,"
Says she, jest as sharp as a knife;
"But if they go ter church I refuse to!"
"Good-by!" says the minister's wife.

And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy
At her not comin' sooner ter call,
And old Miss Macgregor is huffy
'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all.
Each one of the crowd hates the other,
The church has been full of their strife;
But now they're all hatin' another,
And that one's the minister's wife.

But still, all their cackle unheedin',
She goes, in her ladylike way,
A-givin' the poor what they're needing
And helpin' the church every day:
Our numbers each Sunday is swelling
And real, true religion is rife,
And sometimes I feel like a-yellin',
"Three cheers fer the minister's wife!"