THE CARPENTER;

      Or, the DANGER of EVIL COMPANY.

[NLS note: a graphic appears here - see image of page]

THERE was a young Weſt-country
man,
A Carpenter by trade ;
A ſkilful wheelwright too was he,
And few ſuch Waggons made.

No Man a tighter Barn cou'd build,
Throughout his native town,
Thro' many a village round was he,
The beſt of workmen known.

His father left him what he had,
In ſooth it was enough ;
His ſhining pewter, pots of braſs,
And all his houſehold ſtuff.

A little cottage too he had,
For eaſe and comfort plann'd,
And that he might not lack for ought,
An acre of good land.

A pleaſant orchard too there was,
Before his cottage door ;
Of cider and of corn likewiſe,
He had a little ſtore.

Active and healthy, ſlout and young,
No buſineſs wanted he ;
Now tell me reader if you can,
What man more bleſt cou'd be ?

To make his comfort quite compleat,
He had a faithful Wife ;
Frugal and neat and good was ſhe,
The bleſſing of his life.

Where is the Lord, or where the Squire,
Had greater cauſe to praiſe,
The goodneſs of that bounteous hand,
Which bleſt his proſp'rous days ?

Each night when he return'd from work,
His wife ſo meek and mild,
His little ſupper gladly dreſs'd,
While he careſs'd his child.

One blooming babe was all he had,
His only darling dear,
The object of their equal love,
The ſolace of their care.

O what cou'd ruin ſuch a life,
And ſpoil ſo fair a lot ?
O what cou'd change ſo kind a heart,
All goodneſs quite forgot ?

With grief the cauſe I muſt relate,
The diſmal cauſe reveal,
'Twas EVIL COMPANY and DRINK,
The ſource of every ill.

A Cooper came to live hard by,
Who did his fancy pleaſe ;
An idle rambling Man was he,
Who oft had croſs'd the ſeas.

This Man could tell a merry tale,
And ſnig a merry ſong ;
And thoſe who heard him ſing or talk,
Ne'er thought the ev'ning long.

But vain and vicious was the ſong,
And wicked was the tale ;
And every pauſe he always ſill'd,
With cider, gin, or ale.

Our Carpenter delighted much,
To hear the Cooper talk ;
And with him to the Ale-houſe oft,
Wou'd take his evening walk.

At firſt he did not care for drink,
But only lik'd the fun ;
But ſoon he from the Cooper learnt,
The ſame ſad courſe to run.

He ſaid the Cooper's company,
Was all for which he car'd ;
But ſoon he drank as much as he,
To ſwear like him ſoon dar'd.

His hammer now neglected lay,
For work he little car'd ;
Half finiſh'd wheels, and broken tools,
Were ſtrew'd about his yard.

To get him to attend his work,
No prayers cou'd now prevail :
His hatchet and his plane forgot,
He never drove a Nail.

His chearful ev'nings now no more,
With peace and plenty ſmil'd ;
No more he fought his pleating Wife,
Nor hugg'd his ſmiling child.

For not his drunken nights alone,
Were with the Cooper paſt ;
His days were at the Angel ſpent,
And ſtill he ſtay'd the laſt.

No handſome Sunday ſuit was left,
Nor decent holland ſhirt ;
No noſegay mark'd the Sabbath day,
But all was rags and dirt.

No more his Church he did frequent,
A ſymptom ever ſad ;
Where once the Sunday is miſpent,
The week days muſt be bad.

The cottage mortgag'd for its worth,
The favourite orchard fold ;
He ſoon began to feel th'effects
Of hunger and of cold.

The pewter diſhes one by one,
Were pawn'd, till none was left ;
And wife and babe at home remain'd
Of every help bereft.

By chance he call'd at home one night,
And in a ſurly mood,
He bade his weeping wife to get
Immediately ſome food.

His empty cupboard well he knew
Muſt needs be bare of bread ;
No raſher on the rack he ſaw,
Whence cou'd he then be fed ?

His wife* a piteous ſigh did heave,
And then before him laid
A baſket cover'd with a cloth,
But not a word ſhe ſaid.

Then to her huſband gave a knife,
With many a ſilent tear ;
In haſte he tore the cover off,
And ſaw his child lay there.

There lies thy babe, the mother ſaid,
" Oppreſs'd with famine ſore ;
" O kill us both—'twere kinder far,
" We cou'd not ſuffer more."

The Carpenter, ſtruck to the heart,
Fell on his knees ſtraitway ;
He wrung his hands——confeſs'd his ſins,
And did both weep and pray.

From that ſame hour the Cooper more,
He never wou'd behold ;
Nor wou'd he to the Ale-houſe go,
Had it been pav'd with gold.

His Wife forgave him all the paſt,
And ſooth'd his ſorrowing mind,
And much he griev'd that e'er he wrong'd
The worthieſt of her kind.

By lab'ring hard, and working late,
By induſtry and pains,
His Cottage was at length redeem'd,
And ſav'd were all his gains.

His Sundays now at Church were ſpent,
His home was his delight.
The following verſe himſelf he made,
And read it every night :

The Drunkard Murders Child and Wife,
Nor matters it a pin,
Whether he ſtabs them with his knife,

Or ſtarves them by his gin.                    Z.

                                                                                       * See Berquin's Gardener.

                                                         [ Enter'd at Stationers Hall. ]

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