Still after him with fury
  The bull did rush and roar,
And was very near the deacon
  When he reached the outer door.

Through kitchen and through parlor fine,
  Breathless, the poor man flew,
And lo! the bull is at his heels
  And in the parlor too.

A flight of stairs is all that’s left
  Between him and despair;
He springs to gain the top, and falls,
  A sober deacon, there.

But to his ears terrific sounds
  Rise from the room below—­
Tables and glasses, chairs and all,
  Crash, crash, together go!

Upon the wall a mirror hung,
  Of massive, gilded frame,
Which had reflected many a squire
  And many a worthy dame.

There last, not least, the raging beast
  Descried his form at length,
And deemed it was another bull
  Coming to try his strength.

He plunged to meet his threatening foe,
  But fought himself, alas! 
While all around in fragments flew
  The shattered looking glass!

“What will come next?” the deacon cries;
  “This is too much for one day: 
My rifle’s loaded, and I’ll try
  To stop this noise on Sunday.”

With trembling hand he seized the gun,
  With wary step descended;
He aimed, he fired, he killed the bull,
  And thus the battle ended.

To yonder house we turn again,
  And to the quiet throng
The preacher now has said, Amen! 
  Now ends the choral song.

And friendly speech and courtesies
  And shake of hands go round,
And each inquires the other’s health,
  All as in duty bound.

“How is your spouse?” the parson said;
  “I see he’s not at meeting.” 
“This morning, sir,” the wife replied,
  “His heart was strangely beating.

“I hope you’ll call and see him soon”
  “That I shall gladly do.” 
“Ride down with us—­the carriage waits;
  There’s room enough for you.”

All seated now, with solemn air,
  And with a placid smile,
Such words of truth the parson spoke
  As might their fears beguile.

Lo! they alight, the gate in sight—­
  “What’s that?” the matron said. 
Says Peter, “It’s the spotted bull,
  And I believe he’s dead.”

Thus all, amazed, a moment gazed,
  And quickly turn about;
In doleful plight, the deacon sighs,
  “Murder will surely out!

“Where shall I go?  What shall I do? 
  I’m caught—­I am a sinner! 
My wife, good soul—­my wife has brought
  The parson home to dinner!”

And with a little spice of wit,
  To which he was inclined,
Though none to spare the deacon had,
  He thus relieved his mind: 

“I’ve often heard the preacher say
  That good may come of evil;
Still every hour, with all our might,
  We must resist the devil.

“If horn and hoof be any proof,
  And if the foot be riven,
Surely I am the very man
  That with the beast has striven!”