Have you heard of a Collier of honest renown
Who dwelt on the border of Newcastle Town?
Hi name it was Joseph — you better may know
If I tell you he always was called patient Joe.

Whatever betided he thought it was right
And Providence still he kept ever in sight;
To those who love GOD, let things turn as they wou'd
He was certain that all work'd together for good.

He prais'd his Creator whatever befel;
How thankful was Joseph when matters went well!
How sincere were his carols of praise for good health,
And how grateful for any increase in his wealth!

In trouble he bow'd him to GOD's holy will;
How contented was Joseph when matters went ill!
When rich and when poor he alike understood
That all things together were working for good.

If the Land was afflicted with war, he declar'd
'Twas a needful correction for sins which he shar'd;
And when merciful Heaven bid slaughter to cease
How thankful was Joe for the blessing of peace!

When Taxes ran high, and provisions were dear,
Still Joseph declar'd he had nothing to fear;
It was but a trial he well understood,
From HIM who made all work together for good.

Tho' his wife was but sickly, his gettings but small,
A mind so submissive prepar'd him for all;
He live'd on his gains were they greater or less
And the GIVER he ceas'd not each moment to bless.

When another child came he received him with joy,
And Providence bless'd who had sent him the boy;
But when the child dy'd — said poor Joe I'm content,
For GOD had a right to recal what he lent.

It was Joseph's ill fortune to work in a pit
With some who believ'd  that profaneness was wit;
When disasters befel him much pleasure they shew'd
And laugh'd and said — Joseph, will this work for good?

But ever when these wou'd prophanely advance
That this happen'd by luck, and that happen'd by chance,
Still Joseph insisted no chance cou'd be found,
Not a sparrow by accident falls to the ground.

Among his companions who work'd in the pit,
And made him the butt of their profligate wit,
Was idle Tim Jenkins, who drank and who gam'd,
Who mock'd at his Bible, and was not asham'd.

One day at the pit his old comrades he found,
And they chatted, preparing to go underground;
Tim Jenkins as usual was turning to jest
Joe's notion — that all things which happen'd were best.

As Joe on the ground had unthinkly laid
His provision for dinner of bacon and bread,
A dog on the watch seiz'd the bread and the meat,
And off with his prey ran with footsteps so fleet.

No to see the delight that Time Jenkins express'd!
"Is the loss of thy dinner too, Joe, for the best?"
"No doubt on't," said Joe, "but as I must eat,
'Tis my duty to try to recover my meat."

So saying he follow'd the dog a long round,
While Tim laughing and swearing, went down under ground.
Poor Joe soon return'd, tho' his bacon was lost,
For the dog a good dinner had made at his cost.

When Joseph came back, he expected a sneer,
But the face of each Collier spoke horror and fear;
What a narrow escape has thou had, they all said,
The pit fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead!

How sincere was the gratitude Joseph express'd!
How warm the compassion which glow'd in his breast!
Thus events great and small if aright understood
Will be found to be working together for good.

"When my meat," Joseph cry'd, "was just now stol'n away,
And I had no prospect of eating today,
How cou'd it appear to a short-sighted sinner,
That my life wou'd be sav'd by the loss of my dinner!"

There was a young West-county man,
A Carpenter by trade;
A skilful wheelwright too was he,
And few such Waggons made.

No Man a tighter Barn cou'd build,
Throughout his native town,
Thro' many a village round was he,
The best of workmen known.

His father left him what he had,
In sooth it was enough;
His shining pewter, pots of brass,
And all his household stuff.

A little cottage too he had,
For ease and comfort plann'd,
And that he might not lack for ought,
An acre of good land.

A pleasant orchard too there was,
Before his cottage door;
Of cider and of corn likewise,
He had a little store.

Active and health, stout and young,
No business wanted he;
Now tell me reader if you can,
What man more blest cou'd be?

To make his comfort quite compleat,
He had a faithful Wife;
Frugal and neat and good was she,
The blessing of his life.

Where is the Lord, or where the Squire,
Had greater cause to praise,
The goodness of that bounteous hand,
Which blest his prosp'rous days?

Each night when he return'd from work,
His wife so meek and mild,
His little supper gladly dress'd,
 While he caress'd his child.

One blooming babe was all he had,
His only darling dear,
The object of their equal love,
 The solace of their care.

O what cou'd ruin such a life,
And spoil so fair a lot?
O what cou'd change so kind a heart,

All goodness quite forgot?

With grief the cause I must relate,
The dismal cause reveal,
'Twas EVIL COMPANY and DRINK,
The source of every ill.

A Cooper came to live hard by,
Who did his fancy please;
An idle rambling Man was he,
Who oft had cross'd the seas.

This Man could tell a merry tale,
And sing a merry song;
And those who heard him sing or talk,
Ne'er thought the ev'ning long.

But vain and vicious was the song,
And wicked was the tale;
And every pause he always fill'd,
With cider, gin, or ale.

Our Carpenter delighted much,
To hear the Cooper talk;
And with him to the Ale-house oft,
Wou'd take his evening walk.

At first he did not care for drink,
But only lik'd the fun;
But soon he from the Cooper learnt,
The same sad course to run.

He said the Cooper's company,
Was all for which he car'd;
But soon he drank as much as he,
To swear like him soon dar'd.

His hammer now neglected lay,
For work he little car'd;
Half finished wheels, and broken tools,
Were strew'd about his yard.

To get him to attend his work,
No prayers cou'd now prevail;
His hatchet and his plane forgot,
He never drove a Nail.

His chearful ev'nings now no more
With peace and plenty smil'd;
No more he sought his pleasing Wife,
Nor hugg'd his smiling child.

For not his drunken nights alone,
Were with the Cooper past;
His days were at the Angle spent,
And still he flay'd the last.

No handsome Sunday suit was left,
Nor decent holland shirt;
No nosegay mark'd the Sabbath day,
But all was rags and dirt.

No more his Church he did frequent,
A symptom ever sad;
Where once the Sunday is mispent,
The week days must be bad.

The cottage mortgag'd for its worth,
The favourite orchard sold;
He soon began to feel th'effects
Of hunger and of cold.

The pewter dishes one by one,
Were pawn'd, till none was left;
And wife and babe at home remain'd
Of every help bereft.

By chance he call'd at home one night,
And in a surly mood,
He bade his weeping wife to get
Immediately some food.

His empty cupboard well he knew
Must needs be bare of bread;
No rasher on the rack he saw,
Whence cou'd he then be fed?

His wife a piteous sigh did heave,
And then before him laid
A basket cover'd with a cloth,
But not a word she said.

Then to her husband gave a knife,
With many a silent tear;
In haste he tore the cover off,
And saw his child lay there.

"There lies thy babe," the mother said,
"Oppress'd with famine sore;
"O kill us both — twere kinder far,
"We cou'd not suffer more."

The Carpenter, struck to the heart,
Fell on his knees straitway;
He wrung his hands — confess'd his sins,
And did both weep and pray.

From that same hour the Cooper more,
He never wou'd behold;
Nor wou'd he to the Ale-house go,
Had it been pav'd with gold.

His Wife forgave him all the past,
And sooth'd his sorrowing mind,
And much he griev'd that e'er he wrong'd
The worthiest of her kind.

By lab'ring hard, and working late,
By industry and pains,
His Cottage was at length redeem'd,
And sav'd were all his gains.

His Sundays now at Church were spent,
His home was his delight;
The following verse himself he made,
And read it every night:

The Drunkard Murders Child and Wife,
Nor matters it a pin,
Whether he stabs them with a knife,
Or starves them by his gin.