My honest anger boils to view
A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew,
So much thy humble debtors,
Rushing, on Sundays, one and all,
With desperate prayers thy head to maul,
And thus abuse their betters.
To seize one day in every week,
On thee their black abuse to wreak,
By whom their souls are fed
Each minute of the other six,
With every joy that heart can fix,
Is impudence indeed!
Blushing I own thy pleasing art
Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart,
And led my steps to joy—
The charms of beauty have been mine
And let me call the merit thine,
Who broughtst the lovely toy.
So, Satan—if I ask thy aid,
To give my arms the blooming maid,
I will not, though the nation all,
Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp)
A vile old good-for-nothing pimp,
But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal."
Since truth must out—I seldom knew
What 'twas high pleasure to pursue,
Till thou hadst won my heart—
So social were we both together,
And beat the hoof in every weather,
I never wished to part.
Yet when a child—good Lord! I thought
That thou a pair of horns hadst got,
With eyes like saucers staring!
And then a pair of ears so stout,
A monstrous tail and hairy snout,
With claws beyond comparing.
Taught to avoid the paths of evil,
By day I used to dread the devil,
And trembling when 'twas night,
Methought I saw thy horns and ears,
They sung or whistled to my fears,
And ran to chase my fright.
And every night I went to bed,
I sweated with a constant dread,
And crept beneath the rug;
There panting, thought that in my sleep
Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep,
And eat me, though so snug.
A haberdasher's shop is thine,
With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine,
To suit both man and maid:
Thy wares they buy, with open eyes;
How cruel then, with constant cries,
To vilify thy trade!
To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath—
Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth,
Without thy aid, old sweeper;
So mawkish, few will put it down,
Even from the cottage to the crown,
Without thy salt and pepper.