They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.
He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys,
He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice,
Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice,
Reminding him of her mother’s voice—that wasn’t over nice.
And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies,
He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,
Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes.
No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close.
Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.