This man could tell a merry tale,
And sing a merry song;
And those who heard him sing or talk,
Ne'er thought the evening long.
But vain and vicious was the song,
And wicked was the tale;
And every 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 liked 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 cared;
But soon he drank as much as he,
To swear like him soon dared.
His hammer now neglected lay,
For work he little cared;
Half-finish'd wheels, and broken tools,
Were strew'd about the 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 evenings now no more
With peace and plenty smiled;
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 nosegay 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 mortgaged for its worth
The favourite orchard sold;
He soon began to feel th' effects
Of hunger and of cold.
The pewter dishes one by one
Were pawn'd, till none were left; And wife and babe at home remain'd, Of every help bereft.
By chance he call'd at home one night,
And in a surly mood
He bade his weeping wife go 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.
* See Berquin's Gardener.
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 alehouse go
Had it been paved 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 labouring hard, and working late,
By industry and pains,
His cottage was at length redeem'd,
And saved 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 every 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.
HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD.
IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN JACK ANVIL AND TOM HOD.
To the Tune of " A Cobbler there was."
Written in Ninety-five, a Year of Scarcity and Alarm.
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
I'll give you good sport, boys, as ever you saw,
So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law.
Then his pitchfork Tom seized-Hold a moment, says Jack,
I'll shew 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 every mill;
I'll shew thee how passion thy reason does 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 butchers who get us the meat!
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 mending their diet
Are used 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
Derry down.
Let us look to the harvest our wants to beguile,
See the lands with rich crops how they every where
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
Had you spent them in labour, you must have had Derry down.
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