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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 laborer 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 sufficed,

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 hackneyed long in sin;
What made him rob his master's till ?

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 ?

'Twas gin ensnared 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 cause

Bad company and gin.
And when the future lot is fixed,

Of darkness, fire, and chains,
How can the drunkard hope to 'scape

Those everlasting pains ?
For if the murderer's doomed to wo,

As holy writ declares,
The drunkard with self-murderers

That dreadful portion shares.

END VOL. 1.

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