FROM the fraudulent fiend, that still without end
Most mortals trepans and beguiles,
Who wou'd hook us all in, to do ev'ry sin -
God shield us, I pray, from his wiles!

As our shadows appear, when the weather is clear,
And follow where-e'er we go:
Like a thief, so he steals, hanging close at our heels,
And trying to bring us to woe.

May God keep us all, from Satan's sad thrall,
(I pray from the depth of my soul!)
And Christians secure, from vices impure,
And hell and the tempter controul.

Intemp'rance in drink, is the chief, as I think,
Of his wiles :- for it is from this vice,
Theft, gluttony, strife, and uncleanness of life,
With swearing and cursing, take rise.

Where sots most abound, his trumpet he'll sound -
'Come hither, my lads, to your beer,
'We'll drink and we'll whore, throw the house out of door,
'And I my own self will be there.'

Like a soldier, each sot, soon repairs to the spot,
Where by Satan he's summon'd to meet,
And swills off his bowl, he not minding his soul,
Whilst the poor are distress'd in each street.

Quite cool they begin, as the morn comes cool in,
'Till the sun at mid-day gives its heat :
There's a flush in each cheek, and they lisp as they speak,
They faulter and fail in their feet.

When they've drank each his quart, and are ready to part,
'Come, landlady, fetch us some more,'
He cies, 'Fill each pot, with the best thou hast got,
'We were not half jovial before.

'Come, bring us, with speed, a pound of the weed
'From India brought over the main,
'With pipes long and white, a hot poker, or light;
'Nor let them be call'd for again.

'A rasher next bring, salt herring, or ling,
''Twill give to our liquor a taste :
'Let's drink then away, 'till we're jolly and gay,
'And the barrel has run out its last!'

The noise now grows great, and each flincher is beat
That won't push the fuddle about.
'Come, lads! let us drink, (he still roars) and ne'er think,
'But see all our liquor quite out.'

Some spue it again - some keep it with pain,
Whilst others just sip, and no more:
Some, English - some, Welsh - some, their French out will belch,
Whilst others in Erse loudly roar.

Some swagger and swear, like madmen some tear,
Whilst the fiend spurs them on with a sneer -
'Have at him, my boy! - thy good weapon employ,
'For who would such injuries bear?'

They're beat black and blue, perhaps murders ensue,
Unhappy's the place where he goes,
The quarrelsome fiend, and the trait'rous friend,
The monster, that causes our woes!

There's none without fault. All with errors are fraught.
The best is not free from his vice:
But all are inclin'd unto sins of some kind,
And follow th' old Fox's advice.

O God, our best friend, give us grace to amend,
And keep Adam's sons from backsliding!
Forgive us each sin, and lead us all in
To the kingdom, where thou art residing.