Is-plodding reader!—what d'ye think?
Alas!-tis money-money-chink!
Round the wide world the tempter flies,
Presents to view the glittering prize;
See how he hastes from shore to shore,
And how the nations all adore:
Souls flock by thousands to be sold,
Smit with the fond desire of gold.
See, at yon needy tradesman's shop,
The universal tempter stop;
'Would'st thou,' he cries,

sures,

increase thy trea.

Use lighter weights and scantier measures,
Thus thou shalt thrive :' the trader's willing,
And sells his soul to get a shilling.
Next Satan to a farmer hies,

I scorn to cheat,' the farmer cries:
Yet still his heart on wealth is bent,
And so the Devil is content;
Now markets rise, and riches roll,
And Satan quite secures his soul.
Mark next yon cheerful youth so jolly.
So fond of laughter and of folly;
He hates a stingy griping fellow,
But gets each day a little mellow;
To Satan too he sells his soul
In barter for a flowing howl.
But mark again yon lass a spinning,
See how the tempter is beginning :

ROBERT AND RICHARD.

Some beau presents a top-knot nice,
She grants her virtue as the price;
A slave to vanity's controul,
She, for a riband, sells her soul!
Thus Satan tries each different state:
With mighty bribes he tempts the great;
The poor, with equal force he plies,
But wins them with a humbler prize:
Has gentler arts for young beginners,
And fouler sins for older sinners.
Oft too he cheats our mortal eyes,
For Satan father is of lies;

A thousand swindling tricks he plays us,
And promises, but never pays us;
Thus we poor fools are strangely caught,
And find we've sold our souls for nought.
Nay, oft, with quite a juggler's art,
He bids the proffer'd gift depart;
Sets some gay joy before our face,
Then claps a trouble in its place;
Turns up some loss for promis'd gain,
And conjures pleasure into pain.
Be wise then, oh! ye worldly tribe,
Nor sell your conscience for a bribe;
When Satan tempts you to begin,
Resist him, and refuse to sin :
Bad is the bargain on the whole,
To gain the world and lose the soul!

Shall advance to dismiss me from life's merry

They parted; and Richard his pastimes begun, "Twas Richard the jovial, the soul of all fun; Each dancing bout, drinking bout, Dick would attend

And he sung and he swore, nor once thought of the end.

Young Molly he courted, the pride of the plain, He promis'd her marriage, but promis'd in vain ; She trusted his vows, but she soon was undone, And when she lamented, he thought it good fun. Thus scorn'd by her Richard, sad Molly run wild,

And roam'd through the woods with her destitute child;

"Till Molly and Molly's poor baby were found, One evening, in Richard's own mill-pond both drown'd.

Then his conscience grew troubled by night and by day,

But its clamour he drown'd in more drink and more play;

Still Robert exhorted, and like a true friend He warn'd him and pray'd him to think on the end!

Now disturb'd in his dreams, poor Molly each night

With her babe stood before him, how sad was the sight!

O how ghastly she look'd as she bade him attend,

And so awfully told him, 'Remember the end.'

THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies a poor youth, who call'd drinking his
bliss.
[this?

And was ruin'd by saying, what harm is in
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 blooming babe was all he had,
His only darling dear,

The object of their equal love,
The solace of their care.

O what could ruin such a life,

And spoil so fair a lot?

O what could change so kind a heart,
And ev'ry virtue blot?
With grief the cause I must relate,

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

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 finish'd 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 surley 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,

* See Berquin's Gardener.

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 straightway,

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:

What a whimsey to think we shall mend our spare diet,

By breeding disturbance, by murder and riot?
Derry Down.
Because I am dry, 'twould be foolish, I think,
To pull out my tap and to spill all my drink;
Because I am hungry, and want to be fed,
That is sure no wise reason for wasting my
bread;

And just such wise reasons for minding their diet,

Are us'd by those blockheads who rush into riot.

Derry Down.
I would not take comfort from others' distresses,
But still I would mark how God our land blesses;
For though in old England the times are but sad,
Abroad I am told they are ten times as bad;
In the land of the Pope there is scarce any grain,
And 'tis worse still, they say, both in Holland
and Spain.
Derry Down.
Let us look to the harvest our wants to beguile,
See the lands with rich crops how they ev'ry
where smile!

Meantime to assist us, by each western breeze!
Some corn is brought daily across the salt seas!
Of tea we'll drink little, of gin none at all,
And we'll patiently wait, and the prices will
fall.
Derry Down.
But if we 're not quiet, then let us not wonder,
If things grow much worse by our riot and
plunder;

And let us remember, whenever we meet,
The more ale we drink, boys, the less we shall
eat,

On those days spent in riot no bread you brought

home,

Had you spent them in labour you must have

had some.

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.'

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:

I'll give you good sport, boys, as ever you saw,
So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law.

Derry Down. Then his pitchfork Tom seiz'd-hold a moment, says Jack,

I'll show thee thy blunder, brave boy, in a crack,
And if I don't prove we had better be still,
I'll assist thee straightway to pull down ev'ry
mill;

I'll show thee how passion thy reason doth cheat,
Or I'll join thee in plunder for bread and for
meat.
Derry Down.
What a whimsey to think thus our bellies to fill,
For we stop all the grinding by breaking the
mill!

What a whimsey to think we shall get more to eat,

By abusing the butcher who gets us the meat!

Derry Down. But though poor, I can work, my brave boy with the best,

Let the king and the parliament manage the rest;

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

season.

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.

So I'll work the whole day, and on Sundays I'll seek

At church how to bear all the wants of the week.
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,
I'll ask this short question-what shall I get
by it?

So I'll e'en wait a little till cheaper the bread,
For a mittimus hangs o'er each rioter's head:
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 to his
work.

PATIENT JOE:

OR, THE NEW CASTLE COLLIER.
HAVE you heard of a collier of honest renown,
Who dwelt on the borders of Newcastle town?
His name it was Joseph-you better may know
If I tell you he always was call'd patient Joe.
Whatever betided he thought it was right,
And Providence still he kept ever in sight;
To those who love God, let things turn as they
would,

He was certain that all work'd together for good.
He prais'd his Creator whatever befel;
How thankful was Joseph when matters went
well!

How sincere were his carols of praise for good health,

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!

When rich and when poor he alike understood, That all things together were working for good. If the land was afflicted with war he declar'd, 'Twas a needful correction for sins which he shar'd,

And when merciful Heaven bade slaughter to

It was Joseph's ill fortune to work in a pit With some who believ'd that profaneness was wit;

When disasters bofel him much pleasure they show'd,

And laugh'd and said—Joseph, will this work for good?

But ever when these would profanely advance That this happen'd by luck, and that happen'd by chance;

Still Joseph insisted no chance could be found,
Not a sparrow by accident falls to the ground.
Among his companions who work'd in the pit,
And made him the butt of their profligate wit,
Was idle Tim Jenkins, who drank and who
gam'd,

Who mock'd at his Bible, and was not asham'd.
One day at the pit his old comrades he found,
And they chatted, preparing to go under ground,
Tim Jenkins, as usual, was turning to jest,
Joe's notion--that all things which happen'd
were best.

As Joe on the ground had unthinkingly laid
His provision for dinner, of bacon and bread,
A dog on the watch, seiz'd the bread and the
meat,

And off with his prey ran with foot-steps so fleet. Now to see the delight that Tim Jenkins express'd!

Is the loss of thy dinner too, Joe for the best?' No doubt on't,' said Joe; 'but as I must eat, 'Tis my duty to try to recover my meat.' So saying, he follow'd the dog a long round, While Tim, laughing and swearing, went down under ground.

[lost, Poor Joe soon return'd, though his bacon was For the dog a good dinner had made at his cost. When Joseph came back he expected a sneer, But the face of each collier spoke horror and fear;

[said,

What a narrow escape hast thou had, they all The pit 's fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead! How sincere was the gratitude Joseph express'd! How warm the compassion which glow'd in his breast!

Thus events great and small, if aright understood,

Will be found to be working together for good. '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 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.
In 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 of Gin-shops stand
He will withhold his gift.
Behold that shiv'ring 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,
E'er they have drunk the bitter dregs

The Philanthropic Society.

THE TWO GARDENERS. Two gardeners once beneath an oak, Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoko: You must confess dear Will that Nature Is but a blundering kind of creature ; And I-nay, why that look of terror? Could teach her how to mend her error.'

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?
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 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 cause-
Bad 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.

'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⚫