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If he be poor, and yet has striven

To ease the load of human care ; If to the famish'd he has given

One loaf that it was hard to share ; If, in his poverty erect,

He never did a deed of shame, Fill high! we'll drain in deep respect

A bumper to his name.

But rich or poor, if still his plan

Has been to play an honest part ; If he ne'er failed his word to man,

Or broke a trusting woman's heart; If emulation fire his soul

To snatch the meed of virtuous fame; Fill high! we'll drain a flowing bowl

In honour of his name.



AROUND the board the

sts were met, The lights above them beaming, And in their cups, replenish'd oft,

The ruddy wine was streaming ; Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes were bright,

Their hearts with pleasure bounded, The song was sung, the toast was given,

And loud the revel sounded.

I drained a goblet with the rest,

And cried, “Away with sorrow! Let us be happy for to-day

What care we for the morrow?"
But as I spoke, my sight grew dim,

And slumber deep came o'er me,
And 'mid the whirl of mingling tongries,

This vision passed before me.

Methought I saw a demon rise:

He held a mighty bicker,
Whose burnished sides ran brimming o'er

With floods of burning liquor,
Around him pressed a clamorous crowd,

To taste this liquor greedy,
But chiefly came the poor and sad,

The suffering and the needy;

All those oppress'd by grief or debt,

The dissolute, the lazy,
Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths,

And palsied women crazy ; “Give, give !" they cried, “give, give us drink,

To drown all thought of sorrow; If we are happy for to-day,

We care not for to-morrow!

The first drop warmed their shivering skins,

And drove away their sadness; The second lit their sunken eyes,

And filled their souls with gladness;
The third drop made them shout and roar,

And play each furious antic;
The fourth drop boiled their very blood;

And the fifth drop drove them frantic:“Drink!” said the demon, “drink your fill!

Drink of these waters mellow !
They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull,

And turn your white skins yellow;
They'll fill your homes with care and grief,

And clothe your backs with tatters; They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts;

But never mind—what matters ?

Though virtue sink, and reason fail,

And social ties dissever,
I'll be your friend in hour of need,

And find you homes for ever;
For I have built three mansions high,

Three strong and goodly houses,
To lodge at last each jolly soul,

Who all his life carouses,

The first it is a spacious house,

To all but sots appalling,
Where, by the parish bounty fed,

Vile, in the sunshine crawling,
The worn-out drunkard ends his days,

And eats the dole of others,
A plague and burthen to himself,

An eye-sore to his brothers.

The second is a lazar house,

Rank, fetid, and unholy; Where, smitten by diseases foul,

And hopeless melancholy,
The victims of potations deep

Pine on a conch of sadness,
Some calling death to end their pain,

And others wrought to madness;

The third and last is black and high,

The abode of guilt and anguish, And full of dungeons deep and fast,

Where death-doomed felons languish; So drain the cup and drain again,

One of my goodly houses, Shall lodge at last each jolly soul

Who to the dregs carouses !"

But well he knew that demon old

How vain was all his preaching,
The ragged crew that round him flocked

Were heedless of his teaching;
Even as they heard his fearful words,

They cried, with shouts of laughter, "Out on the fool who mars to-day

With thoughts of an hereafter!

We care not for thy houses three;

We live but for the present; And merry will we make it yet

And quaff our bumpers pleasant." Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak,

And lifting high his bicker, “ Body and soul are mine,” said he ;

"I'll have them both for liquor"

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AMONG all nations in which poetry has been cultivated, song

writers have ever found abundance of exercise in their vocation in adapting to music the expression of moral sentiment, or in making the satire of manners more agreeable, more popular, and more permanently useful, by the union of poetry and music. Some of the most beautiful songs in the English language belong to this class, and there has been no song-writer worthy of the name who has not occasionally forsaken the amatory, convivial, or patriotic departments of his art—long erroneously considered by false critics to be the only legitimate spheres of song—to praise virtue, to condemn vice, to hold folly up to ridicule, and to depict the good or ill manners of society. The songs of this description are exceedingly numerous, and are of every degree of merit and demerit, ranging from the broadest comedy to the seriousness of the sermon, and even of the hymn. The vanity of human life; the instability of greatness ; the charms of friend.

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ship; the pleasures of temperance; the blessings of a contented mind; tbe consolations of old age, and a thousand similar topics, are true sources of inspiration for the lyrist; while subjects of more public interest—the growth or decay of national virtue, and the condition, hopes, aspirations, and fears of the people in general, or of large and important sections of them, afford in like manner abundant opportunities for the moral or satirical song writer. “ Poets," as Mr. Emerson finely and truly says, “ should be lawgivers : that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide or insult, but should commence and lead the civil code and the days work.”

It was in reference to this class of songs that Fletcher, of Saltoun, uttered the famous dictum—not his own- on the importance of song-writing. In his “ Account of a conversation concerning the right regulation of Governments for the common good of mankind," he complains that “the poorer sort of both sexes are daily tempted to all manner of wickedness by infamous ballads sung in every corner of the streets. I knew,” he adds,

very wise man that believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. And we find that most of the ancient legislators thought they could not well reform the manners of any city without the help of a lyric, and sometimes of a dramatic poet.” The extension of education and the triumphs of the printing press have rendered the labours of the moral and satirical song writers of less value than in the time of the ancient legislators, or than in those times, comparatively recent, when Fletcher of Saltoun wrote; but even in our day, a false error may be propped up by a song, and a great truth advanced by the same agency. So that the dictum still retains a portion of its ancient value.

The moral and satirical songs are here included together ; for if satire be not moral it is an abuse; and the lessons of morality have often a better chance of being effective, if sharpened by judicious satire. There are vast numbers of political songs and ballads of this class, which have been produced from the days of the civil wars to our own, which would alone fill many interesting volumes — valuable for the light they would throw upon the contemporary history of the period at which they

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