There’s always crowds when drinks are standing. The house doors slammed along the landing, The rising wind was gusty yet, And those who came in late were wet; And all my body’s nerves were snappin’ With sense of summat ’bout to happen, And music seemed to come and go And seven lights danced in a row. There used to be a custom then, Miss Bourne, the Friend, went round at ten To all the pubs in all the place To bring the drunkard’s soul to grace; Some sulked, of course, and some were stirred, But none gave her a dirty word. A tall pale woman, grey and bent, Folk said of her that she was sent. She wore Friend’s clothes, and women smiled, But she’d a heart just like a child. She come to us near closing time When we were at some smutty rhyme, And I was mad and ripe for fun; I wouldn’t a minded what I done, So when she come so prim and grey I pound the bar and sing, ’Hooray, Here’s Quaker come to bless and kiss us, Come, have a gin and bitters, missus. Or may be Quaker girls so prim Would rather start a bloody hymn. Now, Dick, oblige. A hymn, you swine, Pipe up the "Officer of the Line," A song to make one’s belly ache, Or "Nell and Roger at the Wake," Or that sweet song, the talk in town, "The lady fair and Abel Brown." "O, who’s that knocking at the door." Miss Bourne’ll play the music score.’ The men stood dumb as cattle are, They grinned, but thought I’d gone too far, There come a hush and no one break it, They wondered how Miss Bourne would take it. She up to me with black eyes wide, She looked as though her spirit cried; She took my tumbler from the bar Beside where all the matches are And poured it out upon the floor dust, Among the fag-ends, spit and sawdust. ’Saul Kane,’ she said, ’when next you drink, Do me the gentleness to think That every drop of drink accursed Makes Christ within you die of thirst, That every dirty word you say Is one more flint upon His way, Another thorn about His head, Another mock by where He tread, Another nail, another cross. All that you are is that Christ’s loss.’ The clock run down and struck a chime And Mrs Si said, ’Closing time.’ The wet was pelting on the pane And something broke inside my brain, I heard the rain drip from the gutters And Silas putting up the shutters, While one by one the drinkers went; I got a glimpse of what it meant, How she and I had stood before In some old town by some old door Waiting intent while someone knocked Before the door for ever locked; She was so white that I was scared, A gas-jet, turned the wrong way, flared, And Silas snapped the bars in place. Miss Bourne stood white and searched my face. When Silas done, with ends of tunes He ’gan a-gathering the spittoons, His wife primmed lips and took the till. Miss Bourne stood still and I stood still, And ’Tick. Slow. Tick. Slow’ went the clock. She said, ’He waits until you knock.’ She turned at that and went out swift, Si grinned and winked, his missus sniffed.