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Excess to mankind oft’times brings,
Remorse with all its bitter stings;
When cares oppress us in this life.
At times we drink to banish strife;
But when its feeble aid is o’er,
We are more wretched then before.
Oft poverty the man disgrace,
And shows a drunkard in his face;
Suppose he is a man of wealth,
Excess of liquor injures health;
Not only health but sad to name,
Such characters the sober blame.
The artful villain tries his skill,
When Bacchus gains us to his will;
At such unguarded times disclose,
What makes our valued friends our foes;
And many an injured wife declares
That Bacchus cause her many tears.
The husband oft to harlots stray,
Whene’er he bears a sovereign’s sway;
And by his aid the thoughtless youth,
Is led from virtues paths and truth:
Oh gentle youth the harlot’s smile,
Is given only to beguile;
Their conversation so impure,
That men of sense them can’t endure;
Be chaste in every thought I pray,
Sweet modesty will gain the day;
Bacchus with her can not contend,
She is to every youth a friend.
Oft do I see a good man’s son,
By harlots ruined and undone;
A tipling farmer oft complain,
Much is too low the price of grain;
He must acknowledge oft he meet,
His wealthy landlord in the street;
On Saturdays his landlord roam,
A few miles from his gaudy home;
To this tho’ ancient pretty city,
To see a play denoted pretty:
Oft in the boxes folks call green,
The tenant with his wife is seen;
His spending money in that way,
Good sense and learning then display;
When farmers hurt themselves is clear,
Is riding home and drunk appear.
Driving their horses at a rate,
As plain foretell they staid too late;
The gig turn’d o’er an arm is broke,
Don’t this his landlord much provoke.
Some neighbour who may want his farm,
Take care the village to alarm;
Informs his neighbours he can’t pay
His tithe till sold both corn and hay;
And to his landlord slyly state,
That ruin’d soon must be his fate;
His neighbour was in liquor found,
Senseless and bleeding on the ground;
On going home he drove so fast,
As if each minute was his last;
He’d broke his gig and spoilt his mare,
This Sir is true I do declare;
What I now state to others name,
And they will tell you just the same;
Sir cried the landlord in a pat,
He knows not what he would be at;
Quickly his mind I will alarm,
For I will turn him out his farm;
To me he’s tenant but at will,
Soon soon he’ll be on Castle-Hill;
I instant will the sot distress,
And others will him sharply press;
Sir cries his neighbour should that be,
I hope you’ll give me liberty;
To offer you a great deal more,
Then ere you let his farm before;
I have two bondsmen at my call,
One lives you know at such a hall;
The other friend is Banker Steady,
They both to serve me Sir are ready!
Sir cries the landlord you keep sober,
And only drink your own October;
I’ll promise what you’ve ask’d of me,
And you my tenant soon shall be;
I’ll send the bailiffs on his place,
And that will bring him to disgrace;
The slanderer says pray sir don’t state,
What I to you this day relate;
No says the landlord, I’ll not say,
What you have told me on this day;
This slanderer I do know well,
And only do the truth now tell;
Most farmers whose estates are large,
Their public duty well discharge;
They live on such a handsome plan,
As note and mark them gentlemen;
I do protest it is great pity,
Some drink so hard when in this city;
As when rattling o’er the stones,
They break a poor old woman’s bones;
Or by his trotting horse knock’d down,
Before he leaves a market town;
I do but state what many view,
And Norwich surgeons know its true.
Good farmers I do much esteem,
And therefore make them oft my theme;
May every farmer when he dine,
Have means to drink a pint of wine.