| Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
|
| But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm
|
| Besides, I can tell where I am used 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 livelong day
|
| Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray
|
| Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and 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, and give him both drink and apparel |