Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd,
Wags on about their wives and wark.
The famous feats done in their youth,
At bowling, ball, and clubby-shaw—
Camp-meetings, Ranters, Gospel-truth,
Religion, politics, and law.
With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags—wrong or right.
The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly, divide 'em:
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.
Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.
Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.
These are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate—
They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through,
As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."
They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experienc'd sin forgiven—
Convince you that they're quite secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.
The moral road's too far about,
They like a surer, shorter cut,
Which frees the end from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.
The first's commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.