Page:Saturday night.pdf/23

 Fair Religion mourns and warns him,

Virtue, goodness, flee away;

Does God love the wretch?—he scorns him,

For a drunkard does not pray.

O! what shame to see a creature

Found in shape so much divine,

Ruin'd and debas'd each feature,

Swoln and bloated like the swine.

Purple, crimson, yellow pimples,

Scar his face and horrify:

Where's the healthy red, the dimples

Which a-fore-time blest the eye?

If his body is so changed,

All his dignity decay'd;

How deform'd his soul, estranged,

Sinful, weak, and helpless made.

How debas'd that noble reason,

Which to worship God was giv'n:

Foul the drunkard's sin, 'tis treason,

And will cast him out of heaven.

How deform'd his best affections,

Warp'd from heaven to dying earth:

Can he bear his own reflections

On his base, his sordid mirth?—

Shall we laugh at Heathen wretches

Bowing to some idol queer?

What's the drunkard's god?—he fetches

Forth his foaming mug of beer?

Here he truly sacrifices,

Health, and wealth, and self, and friends,

This the only god he prizes,

Here how slavishly he bends.