A horse? My charger's back is galled, His knees are chipped, his hocks askew, I think he is the creature called By captious folk an 'utter screw', And, spite of his declining years, He jibs and shies and kicks and rears. But if you helped him on behind, And propped him firmly underneath, And led him (for the beast is blind) And patched his hide and filed his teeth, I'm sure he'd be admired by all, For purposes processional. A wife? My daughter's form is rude, Her figure bad, her face the same, Her chin retreats, her teeth protrude, Her eyes are green, her hair is flame . But for processions—on my life— You couldn't want a better wife . A house? A hat? A dog? A gun? I've got the very things. I'll sell 'em, They are all a trifle old, but none Would know it if you didn't tell 'em, There—you can take them as they stand, Processionally, off my hand . The house fell in? The dog went mad? The rifle bust and you were blinded? You seem to think your bargains bad, How singularly narrow-minded! I should have mentioned my possessions Are kept entirely for processions. Why this appearance of disgust? This blow before? That kick behind? I am a reprobate? I trust I am as godly as my kind. Truth, Honour, Faith, I keep 'em all— For purposes processional.