 | Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest |  |
279
LYRICS OF DRINK.
“Whatever step I take, and into whatever direction I may strike, the
drink-demon starts up before me and blocks my way.”—M. Hill.
I turned me to the house of prayer,
Nor thought to meet the demon there—
But as I musing onward trod,
I met him staggering on the road,
In semblance of some beastly creatures,
With blood-shot eyes and bloated features,
Who revel held the live-long night,
Till now the Sabbath sun shone bright.
Nor thought to meet the demon there—
But as I musing onward trod,
I met him staggering on the road,
In semblance of some beastly creatures,
With blood-shot eyes and bloated features,
Who revel held the live-long night,
Till now the Sabbath sun shone bright.
I stood beside an open grave;
The demon here no power can have.
The coffin lowered, the grave filled up,
The mourners crave a friendly cup
Their griefs to soothe and spirits cheer.
Oh! draw the veil and drop the tear
O'er scenes on which the demon smiles,
When they have fallen by his wiles.
The demon here no power can have.
The coffin lowered, the grave filled up,
The mourners crave a friendly cup
Their griefs to soothe and spirits cheer.
Oh! draw the veil and drop the tear
O'er scenes on which the demon smiles,
When they have fallen by his wiles.
I turned me to the police cells—
The demon's voice there ever swells
Through every passage, cell, and chink,
And echo ever answers “Drink!”
A corpse is borne in at the door—
He died in drink; and on the floor,
Dead drunk, some ghastly wretches lie,
Unfit to live, but, ah! to die!
The demon's voice there ever swells
Through every passage, cell, and chink,
And echo ever answers “Drink!”
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He died in drink; and on the floor,
Dead drunk, some ghastly wretches lie,
Unfit to live, but, ah! to die!
I turned to where the parish dole
Is monthly dealt—too oft the sole
Resource of widow'd age and want—
Yet on this pittance, stinted, scant,
I've known upon this piteous dole
The demon levy tax and toll;
By him from Want's lean fingers torn,
Though shivering, starving, and forlorn!
Is monthly dealt—too oft the sole
Resource of widow'd age and want—
Yet on this pittance, stinted, scant,
I've known upon this piteous dole
The demon levy tax and toll;
By him from Want's lean fingers torn,
Though shivering, starving, and forlorn!
Turn ye to furnace, forge, and mine;
Turn to canal and railway line,
Where wheels revolve and hammers clink,
And, lo! up starts the demon Drink.
The joiner's bench, the mason's shed,
The place of dough and smoking bread,
The tailor's board, the Crispin's stool—
All, all proclaim the demon's rule!
Turn to canal and railway line,
Where wheels revolve and hammers clink,
And, lo! up starts the demon Drink.
The joiner's bench, the mason's shed,
The place of dough and smoking bread,
The tailor's board, the Crispin's stool—
All, all proclaim the demon's rule!
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