O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoiled!
Set up your mounted sign without the gate—
And there inform the mind before ’tis soiled!
’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!
Nay, if you would not have your labours foiled,
Take it inclining tow’rds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flat—else, woman meek!
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek!
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain
The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,—
To bring sobriety to life again,
Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,—
To wash Black Betty when her black’s ingrain,—
To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,
Of Suky Tawdry’s habits to deprive her;
To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw—
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in manners—to write heaven’s own law
On hearts of granite.—Nay, how hard to preach,
In cells, that are not memory’s—to draw
The moral thread, through the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!
In vain you teach them baby-work within:
’Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;
’Tis but a tedious darning of old sin—
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time—
It is too late for scouring to begin
When virtue’s ravelled out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains!
I like your chocolate, good Mrs. Fry!
I like your cookery in every way;
I like your shrove-tide service and supply;
“A CHILD’S call TO BE DISPOSED OF.”
