University of Virginia Library

A Warning to the Wicked, or, Margaret Dickson's Welcome to the Gibbet.

INVOCATION.

Ye Sons of Satan, Candidates of Hell,
Listen unto the serious Truths I tell,
Lord dictate thou, and sanctify my Speech,
That I to them may keen Conviction teach,

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Without thy Aid, there is no Strength in me,
All our Well-springs, and Blessings are in Thee.

The NARRATIVE.

I with this hellish Wretch's Life begin
A black Account, yet bright Display of Sin,
O Sinners mourn and melt to know her Case
And in the Glass behold your ugly Face,
Such are we all before a Work of Grace,
Ignorance was the first and fatal Crime,
(Strange this should happen in a Gospel Clime)
By Ignorance want of Learning is not meant,
Knowledge of God is easily obtain'd,
A Bible is the fundamental Rule,
Not studying, the learned Man's a Fool,
Ignorance excludes from the Courts above,
The God we do not know we cannot love.
Knowledge breeds Love, Love teaches to obey,
Obedience keeps us in the heavenly Way,
This Ignorance, the Source of all our Evil,
Sae her a faithful Factor to the Devil,
For when the Heart's not bolted against Sin,
It lets the Devil and Damnation in.
Her Heart grew sear'd, loath'd every Thing was good,
And she indulg'd the De'il of Flesh and Blood,
The Flame of Lust no Opposition meets,
Commits Adultery, and the Crime repeats,
Then Satan drives the Nail in to the Head,
Pushes her on to slay her new born Seed;

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Lying and Drinking did the Work begin,
Till she's a Master-piece, and consummate in Sin,
Now she whom Wrath of God could never aw,
Doth sink and tremble at the Stroaks of Law,
But cunning Satan shifts the Tables now,
Makes her believe a false Repentance true,
She mourns and weeps, and prays with many a Groan.
But still the Heart's untouch'd, and harder than the Stone.
Hypocrisy's a Plaister on the Skin,
But deep and hidly the Canals of Sin.
Good Men believ'd the Wretch had got Remorse,
Satan lurk'd low to rise with greater Force,
The Arm lies back the greater blow to fetch,
So did the Devil with the impious Wretch;
Tho' she surviv'd the executing Cord,
She can't survive the Justice of our Lord;
The Terrors of a Gibbet, soon abate,
Her seeming Sanctity and holy Hate,
The more she Mercy gets, she Sins the more,
Is ten Times greater Devil than before.
So Trees may bud, but never carry Fruit,
When not one Drop of Moisture's at the Root.
Satan returns, with moe, to act their Part,
And warm within that ugly Hole, her Heart;
Gets drunk and steals, and plays the De'il each Day,
With her whole Heart, she throws her Soul away,
The Miscreant kills the Fruit of her own Womb,
To make Damnation her eternal Doom.

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