To mischief turn the pleasures of the night; Anger abuses, Malice loudly rails,
Revenge awakes, and Anarchy prevails;
Till wine, that raised the tempest, makes its cease, And maudlin Love insists on instant peace; He, noisy mirth and roaring song commands, Gives idle toasts, and joins unfriendly bands:  Till fuddled Friendship vows esteem and weeps, And jovial Folly drinks and sings and sleeps.

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A Club there is of Smokers—­Dare you come
To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room? 
When, midnight past, the very candles seem
Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam;
When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise,
And prosing topers rub their winking eyes;
When the long tale, renew’d when last they met,
Is spliced anew, and is unfinish’d yet;
When but a few are left the house to tire,
And they half sleeping by the sleepy fire;
E’en the poor ventilating vane that flew
Of late so fast, is now grown drowsy too;
When sweet, cold, clammy punch its aid bestows,
Then thus the midnight conversation flows:  —
   “Then, as I said, and—­mind me—­as I say,
At our last meeting—­you remember”—­“Ay?”
“Well, very well—­then freely as I drink
I spoke my thought—­you take me—­what I think. 
And, sir, said I, if I a Freeman be,
It is my bounden duty to be free.” 
   “Ay, there you posed him:  I respect the Chair,
But man is man, although the man’s a mayor;
If Muggins live—­no, no!—­if Muggins die,
He’ll quit his office—­neighbour, shall I try?”
   “I’ll speak my mind, for here are none but friends: 
They’re all contending for their private ends;
No public spirit—­once a vote would bring,
I say a vote—­was then a pretty thing;
It made a man to serve his country and his king: 
But for that place, that Muggins must resign,
You’ve my advice—­’tis no affair of mine.”

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The Poor Man has his Club:  he comes and spends
His hoarded pittance with his chosen friends;
Nor this alone,—­a monthly dole he pays,
To be assisted when his health decays;
Some part his prudence, from the day’s supply,
For cares and troubles in his age, lays by;
The printed rules he guards with painted frame,
And shows his children where to read his name;
Those simple words his honest nature move,
That bond of union tied by laws of love;
This is his pride, it gives to his employ
New value, to his home another joy;
While a religious hope its balm applies
For all his fate inflicts, and all his state denies. 
   Much would it please you, sometimes to explore
The peaceful dwellings of our Borough poor: 
To view a sailor just return’d from sea,
His wife beside; a child on either knee,
And others crowding near, that none may lose
The smallest portions of the welcome news;
What dangers pass’d, “When seas ran mountains high,