Alcohol, tell me what more are thy victims
As fruits of their orgies accomplishing here?
Asylums they're filling,
While jails by their swilling
Are constantly crowded, or far off or near;
And orphans are made
By this great liquor trade,
In thousands as all may very soon see!
Alcohol, listen the doom which awaits thee:
More than half of thy doings thou'st kept out of sight.
Every good man and true
Deems it is but thy due
That thou should'st be banished to Regions of Night.
And heart-broken mates,
With all orphans' sad fates,
Compel us to give forth this doom on thee.
TO MY BELOVED FRIEND MR. JAMES WOODYATT.
A CHRISTMAS LAY.
Woodyatt, this Christmas I devote
Some portion of my time to tell
In humble verse what God hath wrought
For us who're snatched as brands from hell.
The best of all my coaxing powers
To lure the Muse I'll freely spend,
Nor heed a whit the fleeting hours
Until my pleasing task shall end.
For I have found a friend in thee,
Such as I strove in vain to find
For twenty years; and this may be
A wonder to thy generous mind.
But so it is; and I would prize
The gift my God has kindly sent,
Nor quell the feelings which arise
Within my breast, till life be spent.
So, while my unlearned lyre I take,
Most gracious Muse, thy aid impart!
Thou canst not at such time forsake
Thy humble friend in this his Art.
No paltry theme shall form my lay
To such a friend at such a time.
Then let my thoughts in rich array
Come forth in gently flowing rhyme.