They say I am old and for­get­ful,
My style is as slow as a snail;
My doc­trines are all out of fa­shion,
My mind is be­gin­ning to fail;
They want a more flow­ery preach­er,
More full of for­give­ness and love,
To talk to them less about brim­stone,
And more of the man­sions above.

For fif­ty long years I’ve been preach­ing,
I’ve stu­died my old Bi­ble well;
I al­ways have felt it my du­ty
To show them the hor­rors of hell;
Perhaps I’ve been wrong in my no­tions,
I’ve fol­lowed the Scrip­tures, I know,
And ne­ver have know­ingly brok­en
The vows that I took long ago.

I’ve seen many tri­als and changes,
I’ve fought a good fight against wrong;
The gals have grown up to be wo­men,
The boys have got man­ly and strong;
The hon­est old dea­cons have van­ished,
Their pure lives have come to a close;
They sleep in the si­lent old church­yard,
Where soon I shall lie in re­pose.

My flock has been always com­plain­ing,
The church was not right­ly ar­ranged,
They vot­ed to have a high stee­ple,
The gal­lery had to be changed;
They built up a fan­ci­ful ves­try,
They bought the best or­gan in town;
They chopped the old pews into kind­ling,
And tum­bled the tall pul­pit down.

And now, to my pain and my sor­row,
They say, the old par­son must go;
I know I am child­ish and fee­ble,
My steps are un­stea­dy and slow.
They want a more spir­it­ed speak­er,
I’m told the new dea­cons have said,
To dance round the plat­form and holl­er,
And wake up the souls that are dead.

I’ll try to be­lieve that what hap­pens
Will al­ways come out for the best;
They tell me my la­bor is end­ed,
’Tis time I was tak­ing a rest;
I’ve lit­tle of com­fort or rich­es,
I’m cer­tain my con­science is clear;
And when in the church­yard I’m sleep­ing,
Perhaps they may wish I was here.