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Then she wept, and she groan'd, and she va- | With grief the cause I must relate,

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HERE lies a poor youth, who call'd drinking
[in this?
And was ruin'd by saying, What harm is
Let each passer by to his error attend,
And learn of poor Dick to remember the

end!

THE CARPENTER:

Or, the Danger of Evil Company. THERE was a young west countryman, A carpenter by trade,

A skilful wheelright too was he,

And few such wagons made.
No man a tighter barn could build,
Throughout his native town;
Through many a village round was he
The best of workmen known.
His father left him what he had,

In sooth it was enough,
His shining pewter, pots of brass,
And all his household stuff.

A little cottage too he had,

For ease and comfort plann'd;

And that he might not lack for aught,
An acre of good land.

A pleasant orchard too there was
Before his cottage door;

Of cider and of corn likewise,

He had a little store.

Active and healthy, stout and young,

No business wanted he;

Now tell me, reader, if you can ;

What man more blest could be?
To make his comfort quite complete;
He had a faithful wife;
Frugal, and neat, and good was she,
The blessing of his life.

Where is the lord, or where the squire,
Had greater cause to praise
The goodness of that bounteous hand

Which blest his prosp'rous days?
Each night when he return'd from work,
His wife so meek and mild,
His little supper gladly dress'd,

While he caress'd his child. One bloooming babe was all he had, His only darling dear,

The object of their equal love,

The solace of their care.

( what could ruin such a life,

And spoil so fair a lot?

what could change so kind a heart,
And ev'ry virtue blot ?

The dismal cause reveal; 'Twas EVIL COMPANY and DRINK, The source of ev'ry ill. cooper came to live hard by, Who did his fancy please; An idle rambling man was he,

A

Who oft had cross'd the seas. This man could tell a merry tale,

And sing a merry song;
And those who heard him sing or talk,
Ne'er thought the ev'ning long.
But vain and vicious was the song,
And wicked was the tale;
And ev'ry pause he always fill'd,
With cider, gin, or ale.
Our carpenter delighted much

To hear the cooper talk;
And with him to the alehouse oft,
Would take his evening walk.
At first he did not care to drink,
But only lik'd the fun;
But soon he from the cooper learnt,
The same sad course to run.
He said the cooper's company

Was all for which he car'd;
But soon he drank as much as he,

To swear like him soon dar'd.
His hammer now neglected lay,

For work he little car'd;
Half finished wheels and broken tools,
Were strew'd about his yard.
To get him to attend his work,

No prayers could now prevail,
His hatchet and his plane forgot,
He never drove a nail.
His cheerful ev❜nings now no more
With peace and plenty smil'd;
No more he sought his pleasing wife,
Nor hugg'd his smiling child.
For not his drunken nights alone,

Were with the cooper past;
His days were at the Angel spent,
And still he stay'd the last.

No handsome Sunday suit was left,
Nor decent Holland shirt:
No nose-gay mark'd the sabbath-morn;
But all was rags and dirt.

No more his church he did frequent,
A symptom ever sad:
Where once the Sunday is mispent,

The week days must be bad.
The cottage mortgag'd for its worth;
The fav'rite orchard sold;
He soon began to feel the effects
Of hunger and of cold.
The pewter dishes one by one

Were pawn'd, till none were left;
A wife and babe at home remain'd
Of ev'ry help bereft.

By chance he call'd at home one night,
And in a surly mood,

He bade his weeping wife to get
Immediately some food.
His empty cupboard well he knew
Must needs be bare of bread;
No rasher on the rack he saw,

Whence could he then be fed !

His wife a piteous sigh did heave,

And then before him laid,

A basket cover'd with a cloth,
But not a word she said.
Then to her husband gave a knife,
With many a silent tear,
In haste he tore the cover off,

And saw his child lie there.
'There lies thy babe,' the mother said,
'Oppress'd with famine sore;

O kill us both-'twere kinder far,
We could not suffer more.
The carpenter struck to the heart,
Fell on his knees straitway,
He wrung his hands-confess'd his sins,
And did both weep and pray.
From that same hour the cooper more
He never would behold;"
Nor would he to the ale house go;
Had it been pav'd with gold.

His wife forgave him all the past;
And sooth'd his sorrowing mind,

And much he griev'd that e'er he wrong'd
The worthiest of her kind.

By lab'ring hard, and working late,
By industry and pains,

His cottage was at length redeem'd,
And sav'd were all his gains.
His Sundays now at church were spent,
His home was his delight;
The following verse himself he made,
And read it ev'ry night,

The drunkard murders child and wife,
Nor matters it a pin,
Whether he stabs them with his knife,
Or starves them with his gin.

THE RIOT:

OR, HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD.
In a Dialogue between Jack Anvil and Tom Hod.

To the tune of A cobler there was.'

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Meantime to assist us, by each western

breeze! [seas! Some corn is brought daily across the salt Of tea we'll drink little, of gin not at all, And we'll patiently wait, and the prices will Derry Down.

fall.

But if we're not quiet, then let us not won-
der,
[plunder;
If things grow much worse by our riot and
And let us remember, whenever we meet,
The more ale we drink, boys, the less we
shall eat,

Written in ninety-five, a year of scarcity and On those days spent in riot no bread you

Alarm.
TOM.

COME neighbours, no longer be patient and
quiet,

Come let us go kick up a bit of a riot;
I'm hungry, my lads, but I've little to eat,
So we'll pull down the mills, and we'll seize

all the meat :

brought home,

Had you spent them in labour you must have
Derry Down.

had some.

A dinner of herbs, says the wise man, with

quiet,

Is better than beef amid discord and riot. If the thing could be help'd I'm a foe to all strife, [saw, [life; I'll give you good sport, boys, as ever you But in matters of state not an inch will I And I pray for a peace ev'ry night of my So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law, Derry Down. budge, Then his pitchfork Tom seiz'd-hold a moment, says Jack, [crack, I show thee thy blunder, brave boy, in a And if I don't prove we had better be still, I'll assist thee straitway to pull down ev'ry mill; [cheat, I show thee how passion thy reason does

• See Berquin's Gardener.

Because I conceive I'm no very good judge.
Derry Down.
But though poor, I can work, my brave boy,
with the best,

Let the king and the parliament manage

I

the rest;

lament both the war and the taxes together, Though I verily think they don't alter the weather.

The king, as I take it, with very good rea- | How thankful was Joseph when matters

son,

season.

May prevent a bad law, but can't help a bad Derry Down. The parliament men, although great is their power,

Yet they cannot contrive us a bit of a shower; And I never yet heard, though our rulers are wise,

That they know very well how to manage the skies;

For the best of them all, as they found to their cost,

Were not able to hinder last winter's hard frost. Derry Down. Besides, I must share in the wants of the times,

Because I have had my full share in its crimes;

And I'm apt to believe the distress which is

sent,

Is to punish and cure us of all discontent. But harvest is coming-potatoes are come! Our prospect clears up; ye complainers be dumb! Derry down. And though I've no money, and though I've no lands, [good hands. I've head on my shoulders, and a pair of So I'll work the whole day, and on Sundays I'll seek [week. At church how to bear all the wants of the The gentlefolks too will afford us supplies; They'll subscribe-and they'll give up their puddings and pies.

Derry down. Then before I'm induc'd to take part in a riot, [get by it? I'll ask this short question-what shall I So I'll e'en wait a little till cheaper the bread, [head: For a mittimus hangs o'er each rioter's And when of two evils I'm ask'd which is best,

I'd rather be hungry than hang'd, I protest. Derry down. Quoth Tom, thou art right, If I rise I'm a Turk:

So he threw down his pitchfork, and went

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went well!

[good health, How sincere were his carols of praise for And how grateful for any increase in his wealth!

In trouble he bow'd him to God's holy will; How contented was Joseph when matters went ill! [stood. When rich and when poor he alike underThat all things together were working for good. [clar'd, If the land was afflicted with war, he de'Twas a needful correction for sins which he shar'd, [to cease, And when merciful Heav'n bade slaughter How thankful was Joe for the blessing of peace!

[dear, When taxes ran high, and provisions were Still Joseph declar'd he had nothing to fear; It was but a trial he well understood, From Him who made all work together for good.

Though his wife was but sickly, his gettings but small,

[all; Yet a mind so submissive prepar'd him for He liv'd on his gains were they greater or less, [bless. And the giver he ceas'd not each moment to Wheu another child came he receiv'd him with joy, [the boy; And Providence bless'd who had sent him But when the child dy'd-said poor Joe I'm

content,

For God had a right to recall what he lent. It was Joseph's ill fortune to work in a pit With some who believ'd that profaneness was wit; [they show'd, When disasters befel him much pleasure And laugh'd and said-Joseph, will this work for good?

But ever when these would profanely ad

vance

That this happen'd by luck, and that hap[pen'd by chance; Still Joseph insisted no chance could be found, [ground. Not a sparrow by accident falls to the Among his companions who work'd in the pit, [wit, And made him the butt of their profligate Was idle Tim Jenkins, who drank and who gam'd, [asham'd. Who mock'd at his Bible, and was not And they chatted, preparing to go under One day at the pit his old comrades he found, ground,

Tim Jenkins, as usual, was turning to jest, Joe's notion that all things which happen'd

were best.

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cost.

Tis my duty to try to recover my meat.' So saying, he followed the dog a long round, While Tim, laughing and swearing, went down under ground. [was lost, Poor Joe soon return'd, though his bacon For the dog a good dinner had made at his [sneer, When Joseph came back he expected a But the face of each collier spoke horror and fear; [all said, What a narrow escape hast thou had, they The pit's fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead How sincere was the gratitude Joseph express'd ! [his breast! How warm the compassion which glow'd in Thus events great and small, if aright understood, [good. Will be found to be working together for 'When my meat,' Joseph cry'd was just now stol'n away, And I had no prospect of eating to-day, How could it appear to a short-sighted

sinner, That my life would be sav'd by the loss of my dinner,'

THE GIN SHOP:

OR A PEEP INTO PRISON.

Look through the land from north to south,
And look from east to west,
And see what is to Englishmen

Of life the deadliest pest.
It is not want, though that is bad,
Nor war, though that is worse;
But Britons brave endure, alas !

A self-inflicted curse.

Go where you will, throughout the realm, You'll find the reigning sin,

In cities, villages, and towns,

-The monster's name is Gin.
The prince of darkness never sent
To man a deadlier foe,
'My name is Legion,' it may say,
The source of many a wo.
Nor does the fiend alone deprive
The labourer of his wealth:
That is not all, it murders too

His honest name and health.
We say the times are grievous hard,
And hard they are, 'tis true;

But, drunkards, to your wives and babes,
They're harder made by you.
The drunkard's tax is self-impos'd,
Like every other sin;

The taxes altogether lay

No weight so great as Gin.
The state compels no man to drink,
Compels no man to game,
Tis Gin and Gambling sink him down
To rags, and want, and shame.
The kindest husband, chang'd by Gin,
Is for a tyrant known;

The tenderest heart that nature made,
Becomes a heart of stone.
la many a house the harmless babes

Are poorly cloth'd and fed, Because the craving Gin-shop takes The children's daily bread. Come, neighbour, take a walk with me, Through many a London street, And see the cause of penury

In hundreds we shall meet. We shall not need to travel farBehold that great man's door; He well discerns yon idle crew From the deserving poor. He will relieve with liberal hand, The child of honest thrift; But where long scores at Gin-shops stand, He will withhold his gift. Behold that shivʼring female there, Who plies her woful trade! 'Tis ten to one you'll find that Gin

That hopeless wretch has made. Look down those steps, and view below Yon cellar under ground, There ev'ry want and ev'ry wo

And ev'ry sin is found.
Those little wretches trembling there,
With hunger and with cold,

Were by their parents' love of Gin,
To sin and misery sold.

Blest be those friends to human kind
Who take these wretches up,
Where they have drunk the bitter dregs
Of their sad parents' cup.

Look through that prison's iron bars,

Look through that dismal grate, And learn what dire misfortune brought So terrible a fate.

The debtor and the felon too,

Though differing much in sin,
Too oft you'll find were thither brought
By all-destroying Gin.

Yet Heav'n forbid I should confound
Calamity with guilt!

Or name the debtor's lesser fault

With blood of brother spilt. To prison dire misfortune oft

The guiltless debtor brings;
Yet oft'ner far it will be found

From Gin the misery springs.
See the pale manufacturer there,
How lank and lean he lies!
How haggard is his sickly cheek!
How dim his hollow eyes!
He plied the loom with good success,
His wages still were high,
Twice what the village lab'rer gains,
His master did supply.

No book-debts kept him from his cash,
All paid as soon as due,
His wages on the Saturday

To fail he never knew.

How amply had his gains suffic'd
On wife and children spent!

But all must for his pleasures go,

All to the Gin-shop went.
See that apprentice, young in years,

But hackney'd long in sin,
What made him rob his master's till?

The Philanthropic Society.

Alas! 'twas love of Gin. That serving man-I knew him once, So jaunty, spruce, and smart ! Why did he steal, then pawn the plate? Thus Gin ensnar'd his heart. But hark! what dismal sound was that? 'Tis Saint Sepulchre's bell! It tolls, alas, for human guilt,

Some malefactor's knell.

O! woful sound! O! what could cause Such punishment and sin?

Hark! hear his words, he owns the causeBad Company and Gin.

And when the future lot is fix'd

Of darkness, fire, and chains,
How can the drunkard hope to 'scape
Those everlasting pains!

For if the murd'rer's doom'd to wo,
As Holy-Writ declares,
The drunkard with self-murderers.
That dreadful portion shares.

TALES.

THE TWO GARDENERS. Two gardeners once beneath an oak, Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke : You must confess dear Will that Nature Is but a blund'ring kind of creature ; And I-nay, why that look of terror? Could teach her how to mend her error.' Your talk,' quoth Will, is bold and odd, What you call Nature, I call God.'

Well, call him by what name you will,' Quoth Jack, he manages but ill; Nay, from the very tree we're under, I'll prove that Providence can blunder.' Quoth Will, Through thick and thin you dash,

.

I shudder Jack, at words so rash;
I trust to what the Scriptures tell,
He hath done always all things well.'
Quoth Jack, I'm lately grown a wit,
And think all good a lucky hit.

·

To Prove that Providence can err, Not words but facts the truth aver. To this vast oak lift up thine eyes, Then view that acorn's paltry size; How foolish on a tree so tall, To place that tiny cup and ball. Now look again, yon pompion* see, It weighs two pound at least, nay three; Yet this large fruit, where is it found? Why, meanly trailing on the ground. Had Providence ask'd my advice, I would have chang'd it in a trice; I would have said at Nature's birth, Let Acorns creep upon the earth; But let the pompion, vast and round, On the oak's lofty boughs be found.' He said-and as he rashly spoke, Lo! from the branches of the oak, A wind, which suddenly arose, Beat show'rs of acorns on his nose; Oh! oh :' quoth Jack, I'm wrong I see, And God is wiser far than me. For did a show'r of pompions large, Thus on my naked face discharge, I had been bruis'd and blinded quite, What heav'n appoints I find is right; Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel, I'll think how light the acorns fell; Whereas on cak's had pompions hung, My broken skull had stopp'd my tongue.

• A Gourd.

THE LADY AND THE PYE:
OK KNOW THYSELF.

A WORTHY Squire of sober life
Had a conceited boasting wife:
Of him she daily made complaint,
Herself she thought a very saint.
She lov'd to load mankind with blame,
And on their errors build her fame.
Her fav'rite subject of dispute
Was Eve and the forbidden fruit,
Had I been Eve,' she often cried,
Man had not fall'n, nor woman died;
I still had kept the orders giv❜n,
Nor for an apple lost my heav'n;
To gratify my curious mind

I ne'er had ruin'd all mankind;
Nor from a vain desire to know,
Entail'd on all my race such wo.'

The squire reply'd; I fear 'tis true,
The same ill spirit lives in you;
Tempted alike, I dare believe,
You would have disobey'd like Eve.'
The lady storm'd, and still deny'd
Sin, curiosity, and pride.

The squire, some future day at dinner,
Resolv'd to try this boastful sinner;
He griev'd such vanity possest her,
And thus in serious terms address'd her :
'Madam, the usual splendid feast,
With which our wedding day is grac'd,
With you I must not share to-day
For business summons me away.
Of all the dainties I've prepar'd,
I beg not any may be spar'd;
Indulge in ev'ry costly dish,
Enjoy, 'tis what I really wish;
Only observe one prohibition,
Nor think it a severe condition;

On one small dish which cover'd stands,
You must not dare to lay your hands:
Go-Disobey not on your life,

Or henceforth you're no more my wife.'
The treat was serv'd, the squire was gone,
The murm'ring lady din'd alone:
She saw whate'er could grace a feast,
Or charm the eye, or please the taste:
But while she rang'd from this to that,
From ven'son haunch to turtle fat;
On one small dish she chanc'd to light,
By a deep cover hid from sight:
"O! here it is-yet not for me!

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