  THE bigot, with his narrow mind, Can ill in every pleasure find; He makes his God a god of gloom, The pulsing world a living tomb, A curse in every blessing sees, And, thinking Heaven to appease, He cuts—Religion is his knife— The blossom from the Tree of Life. From fogs, that gave that bigot birth, Far off, in many a land of mirth Hearts full of faith in God above Look on Him as a God of Love— A God who bids His children play, And smiles to see His loved ones gay: As earthly fathers smile to see Their children sing and dance with glee. Oh, British Sabbath, bigot bred, Our youth’s despair, our childhood’s dread! God does not scowl in solemn state Behind a gloomy prison gate; Where only joyous songs arise. To make God’s day, then, ’twere as well, Seem more like heaven and less like hell. |
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