The Sons of War sometimes are known
To fight with weapons not their own,
Ceasing the sword of steel to wield,
They take religion's sword and shield.

Every Mechanic will commence
Orator, without mood or tense.
Pudding is pudding still, they know,
Whether it has a plum or no;
So, though the preacher has no skill,
A sermon is a sermon still.

The Bricklayer throws his trowel by,
And now builds mansions in the sky;
The Cobbler, touched with holy pride,
Flings his old shoes and last aside,
And now devoutly sets about
Cobbling of souls that ne'er wear out;
The Baker, now a poacher grown,
Finds man lives not by bread alone,
And now his customers he feeds
With pray'rs, with sermons, groans and creeds;
The Tinman, mov'd by warmth within,
Hammers the Gospel, just like tin;
Weavers inspir'd their shuttles leave,
Sermons, and flimsy hymns to weave;
Barbers unreaped will leave the chin,
To trim, and shave the man within;
The Waterman forgets his wherry,
And opens a celestial ferry;
The Brewer, bit by frenzy's grub,
The mashing for the preaching tub
Resigns, those waters to explore,
Which if you drink, you thirst no more;
The Gard'ner, weary of his trade,
Tired of the mattock, and the spade,
Changed to apostle in a trice,
Waters the plants of paradise;
The Fishermen no longer set
For fish the meshes of their net,
But catch, like Peter, men of sin,
For catching is to take them in.