My friends, I believe we shall none of
If I try from this story to draw out a moral;
Tom Smith, I am told, has now taken the pledge;
Let us hope he will keep the right side of the hedge.
But because men like Tom find it hard
It’s hard that we temperate folk should abstain;
Tea and coffee no doubt are most excellent cheer
But a hard-working man likes his one glass of Beer.
What with ’chining  and hoeing
and ploughing and drill,
A glass of good beer will not make a man ill;
But one glass, like poison, you never must touch—
It’s the glass which is commonly called one too much!
 Machining, i.e. threshing by machinery.
FRED AND BILL.
Two twins were once born in a Bedfordshire
Such events in the best managed households may come;
Tho’, as Tomkins remarked in a voice rather gruff,
“One child at a time for poor folks is enough.”
But it couldn’t be helped, so his
wife did her best;
The children were always respectably drest;
Went early to school; were put early to bed;
And had plenty of taters and bacon and bread.
Now we all should suppose that the two,
Resembled each other as much as two pins:
But no—they as little resembled each other
As the man in the moon is “a man and a brother.”
Fred’s eyes were dark brown, and
his hair was jet black;
He was supple in body, and straight in the back,
Learnt his lessons without any trouble at all;
And was lively, intelligent, comely, and tall.
But Willy was thick-set; and freckled
Had eyes of light blue, and short curly red hair;
And, as I should like you the whole truth to know,
The schoolmaster thought him “decidedly slow.”
But the Parson, who often came into the
Had discovered that Willy was far from a fool,
And that tho’ he was not very quick in his pace,
In the end “slow and steady” would win in the race.
Years passed—Fred grew idle
and peevish and queer;
Took to skittles, bad language, tobacco, and beer:
Grew tired of his work, when it scarce was begun;
Was Jack of all trades and the master of none.
He began as a labourer, then was a clerk;
Drove a hansom in London by way of a “lark;”
Enlisted, deserted, and finally fled
Abroad, and was thought by his friends to be dead.
But Willy meanwhile was content with his
He was slow, but he always was found on the spot;
He wasted no money on skittles and ale,
But put by his pence, when he could, without fail.
To the Penny Bank weekly his savings he
And soon had a pretty round sum in his book:
No miser was he, but he thought it sound sense
In the days of his youth to put by a few pence.