University of Virginia Library

Dire want and sorrow wring the wretch low laid,
Whose hope is lost, whose comfort is decayed;
Whose joys and happiness on earth are o'er,
Whose tears have flowed till they can flow no more:
Without employment, destitute of bread,
His children weeping round their father's bed.
Dreadful intemperance, what hast thou done?
Ruined the wife, the daughter, and the son;
Been one main cause in this once happy land,
That makes such thousands now like paupers stand.
In plaintive strains, O let my numbers flow,
While I attempt, in verses, what I know!
'Tis perfect truth, the cause of many a tear—
The surest source of poverty and care.

Prudencia, when new married, was a wife
Who wished to live in credit all through life;
The dread of poverty made her beware,
And what was earned, she spent with frugal care.
For what she bought, Prudencia e'er would pay,
And still had something for each rainy day.
In such a wife the husband could confide,
Took well her part, and gloried in his bride;
Each morn for blessings both sincerely pray,
And prayer and praise conclude each well-spent day.
A son and daughter, beautiful and fair,
Smiled on their parents, and true bliss was there.

Thro' various causes, when our Nation's trade
Fell, and its former glories were decayed,
Serenus, through good conduct, was the last
That for employment on the world was cast.
Not so their neighbours—these strong clubs had formed,
Revelled and drank, and at their masters stormed;
Called for another noggin, quart, or gill—
Tho' times were good, they wished for better still.
When Sabbath had begun, oft could I hear
The careless workmen, drinking, deeply swear;
And weavers, who had got their wages paid,
Forgot their warps, upon the foot-path laid;
While their poor wives have sat them down to weep,
And, crying, lulled their children into sleep.
In short, when trade is good, what thousands go
Where folly is, and make a week of woe!
The wages spent, which might have made them blessed,
And something saved, should trade e'er be depressed;
But future time is drowned in their ale—
They never think that trade will ever fail.
Now hear me, tho' I've been as bad as you,
And laboured hard, and am a weaver too,
I'll something of my own experience tell,
Wherein I've suffered—brethren, take it well.
I've known the time when not a thread was seen,
But what came from the single hand machine;
While for the week, few shillings, eight or ten,
Were thought good wages for the best of men.
Then cotters aped not gentry's grandest dress,
Good were their garments, their expences less;
Paine had not wrote to lead their hearts astray,
Nor made the poor man scorn the Sabbath day.
The varied sects no opposition knew,
For each believed the Word of God was true;
Neighbours on neighbours stayed, and hundreds went
To pray, confess their follies, and repent.
No Politician wrangling on the road,
Their talk was of their homes, their priest, their God.
Ye now may smile—but let death's message come,
When shiv'ring, cold, we shrink towards the tomb;
Tho' we despise the poor religious few,
Our very fears must prove the Bible true.
When pride has risen to its utmost height,
The Mighty Being, who does all things right,
Sends forth his scourge, and lets the nations know
The blessings they abuse no more must flow.
Frail, feeble mortals cannot know his plan,
Their sins forget,—but lay the blame on man.
Servants their masters curse, and would destroy
The best of men, that give them their employ.

How little have we felt the wrath of heaven,
When all around the bitter cup was given!
The very dregs by neighbouring states were drunk,
And empires fell, and mighty kingdoms sunk;
The guillotine, red reeking with the gore
Of kings, of rulers, wealthy, and the poor;
The tears of widows falling like a flood,
T'increase the torrent of their husbands' blood.
Dark, horrid blasphemies arose to heaven,
For which Destruction had commission given
To draw his sword on many a fertile plain,
Call War to join him, nor return again,
Till both had swept the impious sons away,
That dared with man's great Saviour's words to play.
Who that has had the cross marked on his brow,
And read the words where consolations flow,
Dare scorn Religion, and the Sacred Word
Where man's best peace and happiness is stored?
Yet, have not thousands of the labouring poor,
Read the dark works of impious writers o'er;
Scorned the Omnipotent's unfathomed plan,
And placed their trust on empty sophist, man.
Loosed from restraint, these scorn the nation's laws,
Turn politicians, drink, and gain applause;
Envy the man of conduct, whose good care
Has brought him wealth, which keeps him from despair.

For thirty years prosperity has spread
Her glorious pinions o'er Britannia's head.
When other cities fell by sword or fire,
Ours gained new streets, in fame ascended higher.
No deadly shells were bursting in each square,
No bursting balls, no deadly engines there;
No mountains white with tents when we awoke,
Our slumbers never by the cannon broke;
Our wooden walls, though we have much to pay,
Kept from our shores the hostile fleets away.
How oft have we in glorious triumph joined,
When all the continental fleets combined!
And Nelson's thunder, with tremendous powers,
Banished their strength, and made whole navies ours!
Have we not shouted when great Wellington,
And his brave followers, many a victory won?
Yes, let us blame not those who took the helm,
And kept intestine war from Albion's realm;
Else had our property, our daughters been
All dragged away, while we beheld the scene—
The infant murdered at its mother's breast,
War wasted half, and famine slain the rest.
The fearful, starving in some lonely cave,
And thousands buried in one common grave.
Had you, who wish for civil war to rage,
Seen in your streets contending hosts engage;
The wounded warrior creeping slow to die,
Without a friend, without a surgeon nigh.
Perhaps he, pale, may reach the nearest door,
There hopeless drop—his earthly warfare o'er;
And when the terror of the battle's gone,
You raise his head, and find your dearest son.
You have not seen the wounded pant for breath,
You have not seen their lips changed blue by death;
You have not heard the dying warrior's groan,
His wounded temples pillowed on a stone.
You have not seen the dire effects of war
In places, crowded, where the wounded are;
While limbs are thrown on heaps, which firmly stood,
The wearied surgeons wet-shod in the blood.
The place where once your fathers worshipped, fired,
While thousands perish, who had there retired.
Your wives, who stood your friends for many a year,
Are lost, and but their ashes are found there.
But O! I shudder till I cannot write—
Before me swim the horrors of the fight;
I see the charge—I hear the horses' feet,
I see the infantry the horsemen meet;
I see the falling swords on right and left,
Riders unhorsed, and many an helmet cleft;
Now clear awhile, now smoke enwraps them all,
I hear their arms, yet cannot see them fall.
Then comes the cannon with tremendous roar,
The grape-shot flies, the chain and iron shower;
Heaps fall on heaps, and men with horses lain—
The place of conflict burdened with the slain.
Where waved the corn, just ripening in the ear,
And hope exulted harvest-time was near,
Thousands of horses all your hopes destroy,
And hostile myriads blast your future joy.

Now, is there one on this long-favored isle,
Could on these scenes of devastation smile,
And wish proud Anarchy her flag to wave,
High o'er the crown, or o'er the Monarch's grave?
Mistaken man! how soon would foreign foes
Spread their white canvass, and increase our woes!
On trade's fair temple baleful ruin stand,
And foreign tyrants triumph o'er our land!
But 'tis not so—at home let traitors rise,
They only shew their folly to the wise.
The British lion near the throne is laid,
And guards the King, whose bounty is displayed;
Wherever want is known, or subjects cry,
He feels for sufferings, and his help is nigh.

When wandering slowly, musing on distress,
The wants and miseries of the comfortless,
Lone in the woods I met a poor old man,
Tottering with age, who this discourse began:—
“Hast thou my daughter met, with features pale,
Or has she told her melancholy tale,
How her three children for these two days past,
Have never tasted bread to break their fast;
Left destitute by him who should provide?”
The old man paused—weary, sat down and cried.
Relieved from sorrow by a flood of tears,
At length he spoke, and shook his few grey hairs.—
“Ten years a widower have I been left,
Of every hope, of every joy bereft,
But this fond wish, that when my griefs are o'er,
I shall behold my faithful wife once more,
In scenes of bliss—far from a world of care,
Beyond the reach of misery and despair.”
His tears again in streams began to fall,
He cried—“My daughter's wants are worst of all.
Quite tired of earthly pleasures, such as I
Have nought to live for, but prepare to die.
Such wants as these my child would ne'er have known,
Had not her husband had a heart of stone;
He well could work, and but for ruinous ale,
Yon children's features need not have been pale.
I furnished them with all that I could spare,
I blest them, for myself took little care,
So I could see them passing on through life,
The industrious husband, and the frugal wife.
Fairly they started, hard awhile he wrought,
They lived contented, for they wanted nought;
At last some cruel wretches slew their peace,
And who can tell when these effects will cease?”

“Far from the South some restless workmen came,
Led by a chief, whom I must ever blame,
Who scorned their masters, and each workman stood
For better wages, when the trade was good.
Then clubs were formed, and those few pounds they had,
Must to the leaders of these clubs be paid;
Wages must rise, or not a single bale
Must ever more be carried with the gale.
Then every shopman joined in deep debate,
And each one strove who most the rich could hate;
Led by their chief, and blinded with his guile,
They read the works of Cobbett, Hunt, Carlisle.
And oft he cried “O purchase, if you can,
The poor man's oracle—the Rights of Man!”
Each night, while my poor child has sat and mourned,
Raging and drunk her husband has returned;
Vowed he would walk the kingdom all around,
If work with better wages was not found.—
They never thought upon a master's care,
Nor losses, which oft drive him to despair;
Nor thought that in these days of foreign peace,
How rival competition must increase.
Made mad with drink, they scorned all social laws,
Spoke of effects, but never sought the cause.
A baleful spirit through the country's spread,
Has banished trade, and made us want for bread.”
He mentioned next his daughter, but his grief
Swelled to such height, in tears he sought relief.
Her husband far away, and she oppressed,
Now seeks the work-house with an aching breast!
He bade farewell,—a tear stood in his eye,
A picture of old age and misery.

How happy those when bread their children crave,
Had prudence in good times some pounds to save!
Placed it in Savings Banks, now there secure
Till better times—their food and raiment sure;
A staff in age, a balm when sickness comes,
The greatest blessing of the poor men's homes—
And what on independence e'er is said,
All else but real property's a shade:
This saves from insult in the stormy hour,
And takes away from creditors their power.

Dark Combination, thou hast had thy day,
And helped to drive our Commerce far away.
Blest Prudence, when dark Discord ran so high,
Thou found'st true wisdom and true reason nigh;
Not guided by the boasting selfish crew,
Whose schemes have made e'en starving thousands rue;
But, frugal, liv'dst content with homely fare,
Thou hast what now stays poverty and care.
With wisdom, had each poor man sought thy aid,
They need not now have suffered without trade.
But though deep night succeeds a glorious day,
And dismal ruin seems t'enwrap our way;
Yet, in the vista, see, tho' distant far,
Faint glimmering in the gloom, Hope's little star.
Spirit of Vengeance, blind thou didst arise,
And filled the country with thy venomed lies;
This was thy boast, thy glory, and thy pride,
To sever hearts whom friendship once had tied.
Pleading for better wages, first thou came,
Soft were thy steps, and plausible thy name.
At length thou call'dst a king, dearth crowned his head,
With traitor schemes the multitude he led;
From B---d drove its glorious trade away,
And to starvation myriads left a prey.
Like brothers once could men and masters meet;
But soon thou laid their friendship at thy feet.
Then Commerce wept, she knew what soon must come,
That she awhile must leave her native home;
Her children starving, destitute of bread,
Nettles their food, and straw their only bed.
Too late they seek a curse,—nay, curse him not,
His bosom knows each deep concerted plot.
Leave him to curse himself, be that his pain,
And on his head, like crimson drops of rain,
Let fall the blood of his own comrades slain.
When Discord comes, Trade's glorious sky's o'ercast,
The dæmon, Discord, rides upon the blast;
Hatred and Ruin draw his gloomy car,
Fraught with dread horrors and intestine war.
The British Lion cares not for the blast,
But looks as though a blinking owl flew past;
Secure as when he rode upon the sea,
Crouched at the feet of British victory;
But seems asleep, and views these things as sport,
Then spreads his claws, and opens every port;
While Commerce on a mountain takes her stand,
And views her fleecy flocks on every hand.
Unions and Discord to the winds are tossed,
Their strength is faded, their supporters lost.
Labours attends, with smiling happy face,
Beholds her mother in superior grace;
Soft smiling Peace and Plenty both are near,
And Wealth and Happiness stand smiling there.
Then bending nobly to the friendly breeze,
The swelling canvass rides upon the seas;
Lost are our cares, our discords are no more,
And combinations seek some foreign shore.

While Commerce mourned, what spirits were on wing!
Some said reform alone could comfort bring;
These, filled with pride, sat pompous in the chair,
Addressing thousands who were gazing there;
All occupations in the crowd attend,
The sad condition of the state to mend.
A spirit then came forth, and fled away,
Not like the vapours of a summer's day;
But lurked in darkness, yet it knew no rest,
But shot its poison into many a breast.
O, for a moment, could I climb the hill,
Look down below, and see old England still
Holding the mighty balance in her hand,
At equal poise, our Commerce with our Land;
When storms were past, then would I turn to song
What Commerce felt, when rolled the storm along;
How her rich robe upon the winds was tossed,
Her beauty withered, and her riches lost.
How, sighing, to a lonely cave she fled,
Then on a dampy rock reclined her head;
With mournful looks, to speak she thus began,
And in these strains each powerful sentence ran:—
“Have I not truly nursed, from year to year,
Thousands of thousands with the utmost care?
Have I not ventured o'er the stormy deep,
To bring you blessings, yet it makes me weep
To see our industry and friendship lost,
And on the whirlwind of wild passion tost.
Yorkshire! on thee in wild despair I call,
Wilt thou turn fool, and let thy glory fall?
Bear up with patience, give not way to rage—
'Twill be a blot in History's future page;
And foreign rivals, distant o'er the main,
Will boast that England's glory is but vain.”