22
I will have my pot, said he, giving a pull,
'Tis mine and I'll drink it, altho' I'm so full;
Give the devil his due, were the words that he said,
So he drank off the liquor—and tumbled down dead!
Ah, how silly is the drinker,
Swallowing more than he can need!
To the eye of every thinker,
He must seem a fool indeed.
So he hurts his constitution,
Adding drunkenness to thirst;
All for want of resolution,
Not to yield to drink at first.
Was he us'd to work and labour,
Honest industry his pride?
Idle now, a wretched neighbour.
Hurts himself and all beside.
Has he wife of love and beauty,
Yielding him a plenteous share?
Soon he fails in ev'ry duty,
Nor for dearest ties will care.
Has he children young and tender,
Sweetly prattling on his knee?
Nought but curses does he render
To his trembling family.
Business must decay and fail him,
None a drunkard will employ;
No disease that e'er could ail him,
Could so sure and quick destroy.
