Published at the latter end of the Gin Craze in 1795, this is a warning ballad on the evils of the demon drink.
Look thro' the land from North to South,
And look from East to West;
And to see what is to Englishmen,
Of life the deadliest pest.
It is not want, tho' that is bad,
Nor war, tho' that is worse;
But Britons 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 every woe.
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 imposed,
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 gamble;
'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,
Thro' 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 that idle crew,
From the deserving poor.
.jpg)
The child of honest thrift;
But where long scores at GIN-SHOPS stand
He will withhold his gift.
Behold that shivering female there,
Who plies her woeful trade!
'Tis ten to one you'll find that GIN,
That hopeless wretch has made.
Look down these steps, and view below
Yon cellar underground;
There every want and every woe,
And every 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,
Ere they have drunk the bitter dregs
Of their sad parents' cup.
*The Philanthropic Society.
Look thro' that prison iron bars,
Look thro' that dismal grate;
And learn what dire misfortune brought
So terrible a fate.
The Debtor and Felon too,
Tho' differing much in sin,
Tho' oft you'll find were thither brought
By all destroying GIN.
Yet heaven 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 labourer 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.
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 is that?
'Tis Saint Sepulchre's Bell!
It tolls, alas! For human guilt,
Some malefactor's knell.
O! Woeful sound! O! What could cause,
Such a 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 escape
Those everlasting pains?
For if the murderer's doom'd to woe,
As holy writ declares,
The drunkard with self murderers
That dreadful portion shares.
No comments :
Post a Comment