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THERE was a heathen man, sir,

Belonging to a king ;
And still it was his plan, sir,

To covet ev'ry thing.
And if you don't believe me,

I'll name him if you please,
For let me not deceive ye,

''Twas one Squire Damocles.
He thought that jolly living

Must ev'ry joy afford;
His heart knew no misgiving,

While round the festive board.
He wanted to be great, sir,

And feed on fare delicious;
And have his feasts in state, sir,

Just like king Dionysius.
The king, to cure his longing,

Prepar'd a feast so fine,
That all the court were thronging

To see the courtier dine.

And there to tempt his eye, sir,

Was fish, and flesh, and fowl ; And when he was a-dry, sir,

There stood the brimming bowl.

Nor did the king forbid him

From drinking all he could ; The monarch never chid him,

But fill'd him with his food.

O then to see the pleasure

Squire Damocles exprest! "Twas joy beyond all measure,

Was ever man so blest?

With greedy eyes the squire

Devour'd each costly dainty; You'd think he did aspire

To eat as much as twenty.
But, just as he prepar’d, sir,

Of bliss to take a swing;
O, how the man was scar'd, sir,

By this so cruel king!
When he to eat intended,

Lo! just above his head,
He spied a sword suspended

All by a single thread.
How did it change the feasting

To wormwood and to gall,
To think, while he was tasting,

The pointed sword might fall. Then in a moment's time, sir,

He loath'd the luscious feast ; And dreaded as a crime, sir,

The brimming bowl to taste.

Now, if you're for applying

The story I have told,
I think there's no denying

'Tis worth its weight in gold. Ye gay, who view this stranger,

And pity his sad case ;
And think there was great danger

In such a fearful place;
Come let this awful truth, sir,
In all

minds be stor'd ; To each intemp’rate youth, sir,

Death is that pointed sword. And though you see no reason To check


mirth at all, In some licentious season

The sword on you may fall. So learn, while at your ease, sir,

You drink down draughts delicious ; To think of Damocles, sir,

And old king Dionysius






To the Tune of_“I wish I was a Fisherman."

I AM a bold coachman, and drive a good hack,
With a coat of five capes that quite covers my back;
And my wife keeps a sausage-shop, not many miles
From the narrowest alley in all broad St. Giles.
Though poor, we are honest and very content,
We pay as we go, for meat, drink, and for rent;
To work all the week I am able and willing,
I never get drunk, and I waste not a shilling.
And while at a tavern my gentleman tarries,
The coachman grows richer than he whom he carries ;
And I'd rather, said I, since it saves me from sin,
Be the driver without, than the toper within.
Yet though dram-shops I hate, and the dram-drinking

I'm not quite so good, but I wish I may mend;
I repent of my sins, since we all are depraved,
For a coachman, I hold has a soul to be saved.

When a riotous multitude fills up a street,
And the greater part know not, boys, wherefore they

If I see there is mischief I never go there ;
Let others get tipsy, so I get my fare.
Now to church, if I take some good lady to pray,
It grieves me full sore to be kept quite away;
So I step within side, though the sermon's begun,
For a slice of the service is better than none.

Then my glasses are whole, and my coach is so neat,
I am always the first to be call'd in the street;
And I'm known by the name, ('tis a name rather

rare,) Of the coachman that never asks more than his fare.

Though my beasts should be dull, yet I don't use

them ill; Though they stumble 1 swear not, nor cut them up

hill; For I firmly believe there's no charm in an oath, That can make a nag trot, when to walk he is loath.

And though I'm a coachman, I'll freely confess,
I beg of my



labours to bless ; I praise him each morning, and pray evry night, And 'tis this makes my heart feel so cheerful and


When I drive to a funeral I care not for drink,
That is not the moment to guzzle, but think;
And I wish I could add, both of coachman and

That both of us strove to amend a bit faster.

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