  O, do not flog the brutal rough Who jumps upon his wife, Or in a little drunken huff Prods children with a knife. O, do not flog the brute who takes The old man by the throat And chokes him while a search he makes Of trousers, vest, and coat. O, do not flog the coward cur Who pulps a woman’s face; It cannot do much good to her, And think of his disgrace. O, think of all the smart and pain If his poor hide be thin; The cat, you know, must leave a stain On mind as well as skin. O, do not flog the prowling wretch Who bashes us for pelf, But some nice kind old parson fetch, Or talk to him yourself. Present him with a kindly tract, Or pray with him awhile; Explain that skulls should not be crackt In such a shocking style. And when you’ve turned his wrath away And shown him he was wrong, Then teach him, if you’ve time to stay, Some sweet Salvation song. Far better let ten thousand such Go free to bash again, Than one should know the cat’s vile touch Or feel a moment’s pain. O, do not flog—in mercy spare The burglar’s tender hide. Though murder’s rife, what need we care? The Scripture’s on our side. Come then, ye bashing burglar crew, Put up your sweet mouths—so, And let the cranks who plead for you Return you kiss for blow. |
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