THE TRIFLER’S SABBATH-DAY. ____ LOUD sounds the deep-mouth’d parish-bell, Religion
kirkward hies, John lies in bed and counts
each knell, And thinks ’tis time to rise. But, O how weak are man’s resolves! His projects ill to keep, John thrusts his nose beneath
the clothes, And dozes o'er asleep. Now fairy-fancy plays her
freaks Upon his sleep-swell’d brain; He dreams--he starts--he mutt’ring speaks, And waukens wi’ a grane. He rubs his een--the clock strikes TWELVE-- Impel’d by hunger’s gripe, One mighty effort backs resolve-- He’s up--at
last he’s up! Hunger appeas’d--his cutty pipe Employs his time till TWO,-- And now he saunters thro’ the house, And knows not what to do. He baits the trap—catches a mouse-- He
sports it round the floor-- He swims it in a water tub-- Gets
glorious fun till FOUR! And now of cats, and mice, and rats, He
tells a thousand tricks, Till even dulness tires herself, For
hark—the clock strikes SIX! Now view him in his easy chair Recline
his pond’rous head; ’Tis EIGHT—now
Bessie raiks the fire, And
John must go to bed! |