Jerusalem, Old and NewDidymus Dunkleton Doty Don JohnIs a parson of high degree;He holds forth of Sundays to marvelling crowdsWho wonder how vice can still beWhen smitten so stoutly by Didymus Don—Disciple of Calvin is he.But sinners still laugh at his talk of the NewJerusalem—ha-ha, te-he!And biting their thumbs at the doughty Don John—This parson of high degree—They think of the streets of a village they know,Where horses still sink to the knee,Contrasting its muck with the pavement of goldThat’s laid in the other citee.They think of the sign that still swings, uneffacedBy winds from the salt, salt sea,Which tells where he trafficked in tipple, of yore—Don Dunkleton Johnny, D. D.Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don JohnStill plays on his fiddle-D. D.,His lambkins still bleat in full psalmody sweet,And the devil still pitches the key.
Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don JohnIs a parson of high degree;He holds forth of Sundays to marvelling crowdsWho wonder how vice can still beWhen smitten so stoutly by Didymus Don—Disciple of Calvin is he.But sinners still laugh at his talk of the NewJerusalem—ha-ha, te-he!And biting their thumbs at the doughty Don John—This parson of high degree—They think of the streets of a village they know,Where horses still sink to the knee,Contrasting its muck with the pavement of goldThat’s laid in the other citee.They think of the sign that still swings, uneffacedBy winds from the salt, salt sea,Which tells where he trafficked in tipple, of yore—Don Dunkleton Johnny, D. D.Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don JohnStill plays on his fiddle-D. D.,His lambkins still bleat in full psalmody sweet,And the devil still pitches the key.