"To fam'ly order he's not bound,
But has his springs of union round;
And kitchen sisters ev'ry where
Know how to please him to a hair:
Sometimes his errand they can guess,
If not, he can his wants express;
Nor from old Slug can they get free
Without a cake or dish of tea."
"Slug" at work, or pretending to work, gets a fling also:
"When call'd to work you'll always find
The lazy fellow lags behind—
He has to smoke or end his chat,
Or tie his shoes, or hunt his hat:
So all the rest are busy found
Before old Slug gets on the ground;
Then he must stand and take his wind
Before he's ready to begin,
And ev'ry time he straights his back
He's sure to have some useless clack;
And tho' all others hate the Slug,
With folded arms himself he'll hug.
"When he conceits meal-time is near,
He listens oft the trump to hear;
And when it sounds, it is his rule
The first of all to drop his tool;
And if he's brisk in any case,
It will be in his homeward pace."
Here, too, is a picture of "Slug" shirking his religious duties:
"In his devotions he is known
To be the same poor lazy drone:
The sweetest songs Believers find
Make no impression on his mind;
And round the fire he'd rather nod
Than labor in the works of God.
"Some vain excuse he'll often plead
That he from worship may be freed—
He's bruis'd his heel or stump'd his toe,
And cannot into meeting go;
And if he comes he's half asleep,
That no good fruit from him we reap:
He'll labor out a song or two,
And so conclude that that will do;
[And, lest through weariness he fall,
He'll brace himself against the wall],
And well the faithful may give thanks
That poor old Slug has quit the ranks.
"When the spectators are address'd,
Then is the time for Slug to rest—
From his high lot he can't be hurl'd,
To feel toward the wicked world;
So he will sit with closed eyes
Until the congregation rise;
And when the labor we commence,
He moves with such a stupid sense—
It often makes spectators stare
To see so dead a creature there."
The satire closes with a hit at "Slug's" devotion to tobacco:
"Men of sound reason use their pipes
For colics, pains, and windy gripes;
And smoking's useful, we will own,
To give the nerves and fluids tone;
But poor old Slug has to confess
He uses it to great excess,
And will indulge his appetite
Beyond his reason and his light.
If others round him do abstain,
It keeps him all the time in pain;
And if a sentence should be spoke
Against his much-beloved smoke,
Tho' it be in the way of joke,
He thinks his union's almost broke.
In all such things he's at a loss,
Because he thinks not of the cross,
But yields himself a willing slave
To what his meaner passions crave.