THE EPITAPH.

THE CARPENTER:

OR, THE DANGER OF EVIL COMPANY.

There was a young west countryman,
A carpenter by trade,
A skilful wheelwright 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 workinen 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.

◊ 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.

VOL. I.

7

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 alway 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 finished 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 nosegay mark'd the sabbath-mora,
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 surly 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,
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,

* See Berquin's Gardener.

In haste he tore the coffer 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 straitway,

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.

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: [saw, I'll give you good sport, boys, as ever you So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law, Derry Down. Then his pitchfork Tom seiz'd-hold a moment, says Jack, [crack, I'll show thee thy blunder, brave boy, in a And if I don't prove we had better be still, I'll assist thee straitway to pull down ev'ry [cheat,

mill;

meat.

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

But if we're not quiet, then let us not wonder, [plunder; If things grow much worse by our riot and And let remember, whenever we meet, The more ale we drink, boys, the less we shall

us

I've head on my shoulders, and a pair of good
So I'll work the whole day, and on Sundays
I'll seek
[week.
At church how to bear all the wants of the
The gentlefolks too will afford us supplies;
They'll subscribe—and they'll give up their
puddings and pies.

Derry down. Then before l'am induc'd to take part in a riot, [get by it? I'll ask this short question-what shali 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.

wealth!

went ill!

In trouble he bow'd him to God's holy will; How contented was Joseph when matters [stood. When rich and when poor he alike underThat 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, [cease, And when merciful Heav'n bade slaughter to How thankful was Joe for the blessing of [dear, When taxes ran high, and provisions were Still Joseph declar'd he had nothing to fear; It was but a trial he well understood, From Him who made all work together for good.

peace!

Though his wife was but sickly, his gettings but small,

Yet a mind so submissive prepar'd him for all;

For God had a right to recall what he lent. It was Joseph's ill fortune to work in a pit With some who believ'd that profaneness was wit; [show'd, When disasters befel him much pleasure they 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, [asham'd. Who mock'd at his Bible, and was not 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 A dog on the watch, seiz'd the bread and the His provision for dinner, of bacon and bread, And off with his prey ran with foot-steps so [fleet. Now to see the delight that Tim Jenkins express'd! [best?'

meat,

Is the loss of thy dinner too, Joe for the 'No doubt on't,' said Joe; but as I must eat, So saying, he followed the dog a long round, 'Tis my duty to try to recover my meat.' While Tim, laughing and swearing, went down under ground. [was lost, For the dog a good dinner had made at his Poor Joe soon return'd, though his bacon

cost.

fear;

When Joseph came back he expected a sneer, But the face of each collier spoke horror and What a narrow escape hast thou had, they all [said, The pit's fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead! How sincere was the gratitude Joseph exHow warm the compassion which glow'd in press'd ! [his breast! Thus events great and small, if aright underwill be found to be working together for stood, [good. When my meat,' Joseph cry'd, was just And I had no prospect of eating to-day, now stol'n away, How could it appear to a short-sighted sinner, That my life would be sav'd by the loss of my dinner.'

6

THE GIN SHOP: OR. A PEEP INTO A PRISON. Look through the land from north to south. And look from east to west,

And see what is to Englishmen

Of life the deadliest pest.

It is not want, though that is bad, Nor war, though that is worse; But Britons brave endure, alas!

A self-inflicted curse

Go where you will, throughout the realm, You'll find the reigning sin,

In cities, villages, and towns,

-The monster's name is Gin. 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 far-

Behold 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 at 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.

THE TWO GARDENERS.

Two gardeners once beneath an oak, Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke : You must confess dear Will that Nature Is but a blund'ring kind of creature ;

Blest be those friends* to human kinä
Who take these wretches up,
Where they have drunk the bitter dregs
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!
Thus 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.

*The Philanthropic Society.