The deacon was a man of peace,
  For so he claimed, albeit
When there was war among the beasts,
  He always liked to see it.

“How will the bulls together look,
  And which will prove the stronger? 
’Twere sin to wish the time to pass—­
  ’Twould only make it longer.”

Such thoughts as these, on Sabbath morn,
  Like birds of evil token,
Flew round and round the deacon’s mind—­
  Its holy peace was broken.

Beyond the hills the steeple rose,
  Distant a mile or two. 
Our deacon’s house and barns and bulls
  Were well concealed from view.

“Be ready all, to meeting go;
  Perhaps I may not come—­
A curious fluttering near my heart
  Calls me to stay at home.”

As thus he spake, his careful wife
  Replied with anxious tone,
“I’ll stay with you; ’twere dangerous
  To leave you all alone.”

“No,” answered he—­“go, every one;
  I’ve had the same before,
And, with a little medicine,
  No doubt ’twill soon be o’er.

“Run, Peter, run for Bonny Gray,
  Nor tarry till you find him;
I’ve often heard his own or say
  He’d carry all behind him.”

The carriage stands before the door;
  They enter—­one, two, three;
The deacon says, “There’s room for more—­
  Enough for Parson G.”

The parson was a portly man—­
  The deacon loved to joke;
But afterwards, as it befell,
  Was sorry that he spoke.

They move to join the gathering throng
  Within the house of prayer. 
Now ceased the bell its solemn peal—­
  The deacon was not there.

Where was he, then?  Perhaps you’ll say
  In easy chair reclining,
The glimmer of his spectacles,
  Upon his Bible shining.

Ah, no!  See you that earnest man,
  With air so bold and free,
Driving a spotted, warlike bull?—­
  That very man is he.

Left to himself, the deacon grave
  Tarried not long within,
And, thinking of his sturdy beasts,
  Forgot his medicine.

“I hope the meeting will be full,
  And I shall not be missed,”
Softly he breathed, and, looking round,
  He murmured, “All is whist!”

Thus on he drove that spotted bull,
  And near the gateway placed him,
And when the other one came out,
  It happened so, he faced him.

“When Greek meets Greek,” the deacon said,
  “Then comes the tug of war;”
But such another tug, I ween,
  The deacon never saw.

Like sudden thunderbolts they met,
  The spotted and the red. 
Those bulls will never fight again—­
  The spotted one is dead.

All gored and prostrate in his blood,
  He lies upon the ground,
While the unsated red one toward
  The deacon made a bound.

Down from the bars where he was perched. 
  Aghast, the good man sprung,
And if you’d seen him go it, then,
  You’d said that he was young.