In the darkening church,
Where but a few had stayed,
At the Litany Desk
The idiot knelt and prayed.
Rufus, stunted, uncouth.
The one son of his mother:
“Eh, I’d sooner ’ave Rufie,”
She said, “than many another.
“‘E’s so useful about the ’ouse
And so gentle as ’e can be:
And ’e gets up early o’ mornin’s
To make me a cup o’ tea.”
The formal evensong
Had passed over his head:
He sucked his thumb, and squinted,
And dreamed, instead.
Now while the organ boomed
To few who still were there,
At the Litany Desk
The idiot made his prayer:
“Gawd bless Muther,
’N’ make Rufie a good lad.
Take Rufie to Heaven,
’N’ forgive him when he’s bad.
“’N’ early mornin’s in Heaven
’E’ll make Muther’s tea,
’N’ a cup for the Lord Jesus
’N’ a cup for Thee.”