(Occasioned by a fall during a frost.)
'Twas a bit gone December,
As I well remember,
I met with a rubber, and got some advice;
What harbour to rest in,
What Friend to put trust in,
And how we may walk with slape shoes upon ice!
In coming down Limber,
Among the young timber,
My foot slipt, and falling, it was a take in,
The night being darkish,
And we a bit larkish,
Instead of a broom bush, I grasped a whin!
When my fingers were bleeding,
And pain was succeeding,
It set me a thinking,—of that you'll not doubt;
And but for the blunder,
Which lessen'd the wonder,
I else had been punish'd enough to sing out!
My views being muddy,
I quickly did study,
What things upon earth to compare with this whin;
After walking around 'em,
I very soon found 'em
To be a false friend, or the pleasures of sin!
A true Friend is precious,
His favour's delicious,
He'll give you a lift, when he sees you break down;
In conflicts distressing,
You'll find him a blessing,
He'll mark your oppressions, and call them his own!
But a false Friend will vary,
And vow quite contrary,
His heart to your grief will be hard as a stone;
In sorrow or sickness,
He'll pity your weakness,
But only plant under your pillow a thorn!