The Bookshelf

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,

But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm:

Besides I can tell where I am use'd well,

Such usage in heaven will never do well.

But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.

And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale:

We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day:

Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.

And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring:

And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church

Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch

And God like a father rejoicing to see.

His children as pleasant and happy as he:

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel

But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.