JOHN AND JOAN,
A Domestic Tale.
No plate had John and Joan to hoard, Plain folk in humble plight; One only tankard crown'd their board, And that was fill'd each night.
Along whose inner bottom sketch'd In pride of chubby grace, Soine rude engraver's hand had etch'd A baby angel's face.
John swallow'd first a moderate sup, But Joan was not like John; For when her lips first touch'd the cup, She swill'd till all was gone.
John often urg'd her to drink fair But she ne'er chang'd a jot; She lov'd to see the angel there, And therefore drain'd the pot.
When John found a l remonstrance vain Another card he play'd; And where the angel stood so plain, He got a devil pourtray'd.
Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail, Yet she as stoutly quaff'd; And ever when she seiz'd her ale, She clear'd it at a draught.
John star'd, with wonder petrified, His hair rose on his pate: And why dost guzzle now,' he cried, At this enormous rate!'
'Oh, John,' said she, 'am I to blame?- I can't in conscience stop: For sure 'twould be a burning shame, To leave the devil a drop!'
