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. I.