The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
The Robber may our house despoil
By daring theft or crafty toil;
But though he makes our goods his prey,
He cannot bear the House away:
Takes what he can—but, coarsely kind,
What he can't take, he leaves behind.
Though 'tis a mischief all would shun,
We may be robb'd, but not undone.
—But when our house, or great or small,
Whate'er it be, contains our all;
A Conflagration's rapid power
May prove our ruin in an hour.
When we are robb'd we know the worst;
But Fire's an evil most accurst:
Where it begins we may discover,
But who can tell when 'twill be over.
Though safe we think our treasure lies,
And well secur'd from hands and eyes:
The Flames may come, and, to our cost,
It may be melted down and lost.
Bolts, and Bars, and Barricadoes,
May disappoint midnight Bravadoes;
But what can keep, we would enquire,
A House from being set on Fire:
Nay, should it be of Lath and Plaster,
Nought could arrest the sad disaster;
And, if its roof be made of Thatch,
They must be quick who lift the Latch.
By daring theft or crafty toil;
But though he makes our goods his prey,
He cannot bear the House away:
Takes what he can—but, coarsely kind,
What he can't take, he leaves behind.
Though 'tis a mischief all would shun,
We may be robb'd, but not undone.
—But when our house, or great or small,
Whate'er it be, contains our all;
109
May prove our ruin in an hour.
When we are robb'd we know the worst;
But Fire's an evil most accurst:
Where it begins we may discover,
But who can tell when 'twill be over.
Though safe we think our treasure lies,
And well secur'd from hands and eyes:
The Flames may come, and, to our cost,
It may be melted down and lost.
Bolts, and Bars, and Barricadoes,
May disappoint midnight Bravadoes;
But what can keep, we would enquire,
A House from being set on Fire:
Nay, should it be of Lath and Plaster,
Nought could arrest the sad disaster;
And, if its roof be made of Thatch,
They must be quick who lift the Latch.
| The English Dance of Death | |