You sing about the preacher,
His labors and his life,
But rarely ever mention
His lonely patient wife.

He earns his meed of honors,
The pleasures he may quaff,
But half is due the woman
He calls his better-half.

Few folks think to consider
The lonely hours she spends,
But no amount of money
For this can make amends.

She loves her precious hubby,
As any other wife,
And 'twere her greatest pleasure
With him to spend her life.

Sometimes, out in the country,
She has to run the farm,
And keep the seven children
From sickness, sin and harm.

And she must be quite careful,
For it is understood
The children of a preacher
Must all be extra good.

And when John comes on Monday,
With three plugs in his purse,
She thanks the Lord devoutly
That matters are no worse.

For brethren are forgetful,
In a financial way,
And for the preacher's labor
Sometimes forget to pay.

It makes their spirits happy
To hear him quote the texts,
And stirs their zeal and ardor
To see him "skin the sects."

But they forget his pocket,
And, to their shame I say,
Forget the patient woman
That's waiting, far away!

At times she would go with him,
But careless folk would chide:
"With all that mob of children,
At home she should abide!"

Then people often wonder,
(Perhaps it is no sin,)

The preacher is so portly,
And wife so lean and thin.

The problem is quite easy,
If you can calculate,
And add up simple figures
When set down on a slate.

He boards among the brethren,
Who feed him with a vim,
She lives upon a salary,
That's always short and slim!

But in the land of glory,
Our blessed home on high,
If extra crowns are given
In that sweet by-and-by:

The preachers' wives will get them,
I solemnly aver,
For unpaid faithful service
That they have rendered here.

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