The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

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To make thee downright mad;
For, mind me, in their wishing mood,
They never offer thee what's good,
But every thing that's bad.
My honest anger boils to view
A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew,
So much thy humble debtors,
Rushing, on Sundays, one and all,
With desperate prayers thy head to maul,
And thus abuse their betters.
To seize one day in every week,
On thee their black abuse to wreak,
By whom their souls are fed
Each minute of the other six,
With every joy that heart can fix,
Is impudence indeed!
Blushing I own thy pleasing art
Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart,
And led my steps to joy--
The charms of beauty have been mine
And let me call the merit thine,
Who broughtst the lovely toy.
So, Satan--if I ask thy aid,
To give my arms the blooming maid,
I will not, though the nation all,
Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp)
A vile old good-for-nothing pimp,
But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal."
Since truth must out--I seldom knew
What 'twas high pleasure to pursue,
Till thou hadst won my heart--
So social were we both together,
And beat the hoof in every weather,
I never wished to part.
Yet when a child--good Lord! I thought