Saturday night/Toper's Tale

THE
TOPER'S TALE,
OVER HIS
JUG OF ALE.

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Halloo, whoop, my brave boys! who love frolic and fun,
To sit all day boozing, and bask in the sun!
Let him come at my whistle, & seat himself here
Like a brave jolly fellow, and toss off his beer.

'Twas just at the door of the alehouse he stood,
At the old Cat & Bagpipes, there close by the wood;
You go fast by the church, and turn down the left hand,
Just beyond it the stocks and the whipping-post stand.

'Twas on the long bench there, beneath the old oak,
Whose shade's so refreshing, Tom Toper thus spoke:
Snip heard him, the tailor, just over the way,
And was down in a twinkling to hear him so say:

That's right brother Snip, here together we'll stitch,
If you'll cut into tune, into rhyme I will hitch;
So let the dull souls on the shop-board seek wealth,
Whilst that you and I hiccup each other's good health.
Soon join'd them the blacksmith, with his sooty face,
Coming just for a quartern t'inspirit his case;
He had left the hot iron quite snug in the fire,
To steal out for a quaff of his own heart's desire.

We three jolly topers—ha, ha, there are four,
For Lapstone, the cobler, see yawns at the door
He's coming straight tow'rds us, tho' hardly alive,
And bringing old carpenter John to make five.

So these five jolly fellows sat down to their ale,
And they drank till the fumes began much to prevail;
For as liquor comes in all the senses go out,
And the giddy brain reels with the roaring and rout.

First Snip began telling a wonderful joke
How he bilk'd his last landlord when just he spoke,
A grim-looking constable tipp'd him the wink,
And haul'd him to jail in the midst of his drink.

He was main loth to go, & he furiously swore;
Then he blubber'd and sneak'd at the sight of his score;
Twenty-seven and eightpence for Whitsuntide fun,
And a crown for broke windows and mischief then done.

Indeed the next parish their compliments sent,
In the name of Black Sue, on a joyful event,
'Twas a bastard, the fruit of a drunken carouse;
It was high time to marry, and make her his spouse.

This indeed damp'd their frolic, but yet a new pot,
Rais'd the spirits again of each dizzy-brain'd sot;
More mellow they grew, and most friendly and warm,
And swore in good fellowship could be no harm.

Then half-naked Patty, the blacksmith's sweet child,
With pale hollow cheeks, came and tenderly smil'd;
And begg'd of her daddy to come make an end,
Of the horse-shoe, for Roger, their very good friend.

The man wants his horse, and he vows he must go
To the new blacksmith's shop, if you make him wait so;
And my weakly sick mother lies crying in bed,
For the price of the horse-shoe, to buy us some bread.

I care not, not I, for the horse or the man,
I'll empty my jug first, I vow, if I can;
Let him shoe him himself, says he, here I shall sit;
So he blunder'd out nonsense, and thought it was wit.

Go, go, tell your mother I'm coming, and so
Is Christimas, my darling, as you and I know;
I'm in; if I stir while I've hat, wig, or coat,
May I bind the next horse-shoe tight round my own throat.

The poor little Patty went sorrowful home,
To tell her sad mother her dad would not come;
The ebbings of life silent sunk from her heart,
And she just blest her babes, 'ere her soul could depart.

The drunkard—the murderer—rather I call,
The sot who can guzzle time, money and all;
He swallows the clothes, health, and comfort, I think,
Nay, the lives of his family down with his drink.

But sleeping and snoring with feverish head,
Was Lapstone the cobler, there down in the shade;
The shade was quite cool, and his sleep was quite sound,
The next day all his limbs with rheumatics were bound.

Three months lay groaning upon a sick bed,
Nor could stir hand or foot, or lift up his dull head;
His family starve, or the workhouse may find,
For no benefit-club drinking Sam ever join'd.

But tippling at length ⟨over⟩ each one prevail'd,
Until drowsy & stupid their poor senses fail'd;
And tho' dreaming of drinking, they doz'd on the seat,
Till the breeze of the evening abated the heat.

Twas a good opportunity—sin begets sin,
For a traveller who saw what a state they were in
Saw a hole in John's pocket too, whence there was shown
A good new canvas bag, which he took for his own.

Now in this was his rent, forty shillings & more,
'Twas the price of his wife's cow he sold just before:
So he paid, dearly paid, for his mug of good ale,
With distress from his landlord, and 6 months in jail.

But when he awake he began t'enquire
For his bacco box new, just to light a fresh fire,
He would warm his red nose with a whiff and a puff,
Then he found that his bag was gone off, sure enough.

He found he had lost it; full well did he search
Ev'ry pocket he had, for quite left in the lurch,
He knew that his landlord no mercy would show,
He had promis'd so often, and fail'd him also.

From vexing, and fuming, and grumbling, and such,
He began to grow warm at his losing so much,
And charg'd all his neighbours, good fellows and friends,
With playing a trick, just to serve their own ends.

His fellow's were rous'd by his swearing so loud,
And the neighbourhood gather'd all round in a crowd;
Tom Toper declar'd with a laugh, and a bawl,
He'd seen nothing—indeed he could scarce see at all.

John lov'd a joke well, but not at his own cost,
Tho' 'twas no time to laugh when so much he had lost,
Curs'd and swore like a madman, and told Tom he lied,
For 'twas he filch'd his money, while drunk by his side.

He thought so—he know so—he always should think;
And 'twas mean, so it was, thus to cheat him in drink;
Nay, he never could bear it, so knock'd him down sly,
To prevent him from standing so stout in a lie.

Tom was quite a good fellow, nor quarrell'd in ale,
But if challeng'd in earnest, would never turn tail
So he jumps him up quickly, and soon with a blow
Laid the carpenter John where himself had laid low.

Fair, fair, cried the neighbours, let's make a good ring
Let them fight it out stoutly, 'twill be just the thing;
So at him, good fellow, was echoed all round,
And they stript 'em, and clapt 'em, and measur'd the ground.

Now strike him, friend John, like a nail on the head,
Now froth him at top, Tom; his own party said:
That's right, hit him hard, there just over the scull,
He'll spin out like a barrel unhoop'd, he's so full.

Like nine-pins the tumbl'd and roll in the mud,
Their bodies all bruises, their faces all blood,
Till a dext'rous aim'd blow of Tom Toper's at last,
His friend John on the temple, and settl'd him fast.

Down he slump'd like a wool-sack, or lump of pig lead,
Unsens'd in a moment, 'twas thought he was dead;
The women all scream'd the men cried give him air,
Box'd each other, and quarrell'd, to prove it all fair.

Just then his wife enter'd, a child at her breast,
And three rather older amid the crowd prest;
Oh where is my husband! my daddy, they cry,
Oh dear they have kill'd him! I'm sure he will die.

Ah! liquor and drinking, the wife feebly said,
Then dropt her sweet baby, and fainting she laid
Across her fall’n husband, and clasping him round,
In shiv'ring hysteric fits beat the hard ground!

Tom Toper's big boy heard the fray and the noise,
And left his chuck farthing among idle boys;
He lov'd to play truant, he ne'er went to school,
But loiter'd and snor'd out the day like a fool.

He heard there was liquor, that some had too much;
He lov'd to be fawning and coaxing with such;
Taught to drink by his dad, from a babe he was spoil'd,
Did the same as old Tom did, his father's own child.

With his face full of glee, at his father he leer'd,
Cock'd his eye with a squint at the blood on his beard;
Cries out, dad here's your health, as he took up the can,
Full of courage and liquor, my dad is the man.

The father who stiff, and full dirty, and sore,
Had began now to breathe, had bespoke a pot more;
He just ey'd its full froth, and was tipping the wink,
When he furious cried out, as he saw his son drink—

I will have my pot, said he, giving a pull,
'Tis mine and I'll drink it, altho' I'm so full;
Give the devil his due, were the words that he said,
So he drank off the liquor—and tumbled down dead!

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Ah, how silly is the drinker,
Swallowing more than he can need!
To the eye of every thinker,
He must seem a fool indeed.

So he hurts his constitution,
Adding drunkenness to thirst;
All for want of resolution,
Not to yield to drink at first.

Was he us'd to work and labour,
Honest industry his pride?
Idle now, a wretched neighbour.
Hurts himself and all beside.

Has he wife of love and beauty,
Yielding him a plenteous share?
Soon he fails in ev'ry duty,
Nor for dearest ties will care.

Has he children young and tender,
Sweetly prattling on his knee?
Nought but curses does he render
To his trembling family.

Business must decay and fail him,
None a drunkard will employ;
No disease that e'er could ail him,
Could so sure and quick destroy.

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.

But can this his idol save him,
When he comes to dying bed:
When the devil's wait to have him,
Watching round his guilty head?

What new plea, what strong petition.
Can he urge to stop his doom:
Vain his cries, and vain his wishing,
When to judgment he shall come.

Devils that have urg'd his sinning,
Prais'd the foaming liquor well,
Soon with yells, and ghastly grinning,
Down shall plunge him deep in hell.

Stop, then, drinker! dash the liquor,
Dash it from thee on the ground;
Not a serpent stings the quicker,
None with viler poison's found.

Stop there! turn thine eyes to heaven,
Seek the loving dying Lord;
Pray to have thy sins forgiven,
And thy sin-lost soul restor'd.

Grace can heal thy sin-sick nature,
Give thee pow'r thy lusts to quell;
Make thee quite another creature,
Make thee whole, and keep thee well.

Hear the word the Gospel sends thee,
"Laden sinner, come to me;"
If the Saviour mild befriends thee,
Sav'd for ever thou shalt be.

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To be had of D. Macarter & Co. the Religious Rep(illegible text)ry, publishing in Numbers, 1d each, containing th(illegible text)ture and advantages of Sincerity, Humility, Fer(illegible text) and Faith; of Integrity, Fidelity, Sobriety, and Temperance; of Modesty, Chastity, Diligence (illegible text) good order.