The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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CHARACTER DRAWN FROM LIFE,
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
244
CHARACTER DRAWN FROM LIFE,
AND ADDRESSED TO ITS OWNER.
Great son of Bacchus! and of drowsy Sloth!
Thou human maggot, thou insipid moth!
Whose whole ambition is in bed to snore,
Whose life is liquor, and whose soul's a roar.
Through thy dark skull ne'er peept a ray of light,
'Tis black as chaos, and eternal night;
Confusion's dizzy seat, the pregnant source,
Where nonsense issues with resounding force;
Where floods on floods from morn to ev'ning pours,
Wrapt up in laughs and loud unchristian roars.
Thou human maggot, thou insipid moth!
Whose whole ambition is in bed to snore,
Whose life is liquor, and whose soul's a roar.
Through thy dark skull ne'er peept a ray of light,
'Tis black as chaos, and eternal night;
Confusion's dizzy seat, the pregnant source,
Where nonsense issues with resounding force;
Where floods on floods from morn to ev'ning pours,
Wrapt up in laughs and loud unchristian roars.
When Sunday summons grave religious fools,
To pore o'er books, or drink the pulpit rules;
From vulgar bounds thou bravely dares to tread,
And spends thy Sunday gloriously in bed.
There thinks, perhaps, or dreams of sin and death,
This maxim holding as a point of faith;
‘To heaven there's many ways, and 'tis confest,
Who finds the smoothest, surely finds the best.’
To pore o'er books, or drink the pulpit rules;
From vulgar bounds thou bravely dares to tread,
And spends thy Sunday gloriously in bed.
There thinks, perhaps, or dreams of sin and death,
This maxim holding as a point of faith;
‘To heaven there's many ways, and 'tis confest,
Who finds the smoothest, surely finds the best.’
On God, or temple, no respect thou puts;
An inn's thy temple, and thy God's thy guts.
An inn's thy temple, and thy God's thy guts.
A father's precepts, or a mother's tears,
His plain example, or her meddling fears,
Shall thou regard? No, 'twere past utt'rance low,
Such fools, as mothers or old sires, to know;
When at thy honour they advance their horns,
Thou damns her nonsense,—all his maxims scorns;
Comes home mad drunk, and, O immortal Brown!
Kicks up a dust, and knocks thy mother down!
His plain example, or her meddling fears,
Shall thou regard? No, 'twere past utt'rance low,
Such fools, as mothers or old sires, to know;
When at thy honour they advance their horns,
Thou damns her nonsense,—all his maxims scorns;
Comes home mad drunk, and, O immortal Brown!
Kicks up a dust, and knocks thy mother down!
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |