THE SONG OF A SOT.
Words composed by Bro. J. B. Davies, P.M. (753).
Dedicated to George Cruikshank, Esq., by his kind permission.
With a visage pale and wan,
With a vacant stare of eye;
The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw,
In a tavern standing by.
Drink, drink, drink,
Was the demon that urged him on;
And yet still with a husky voice did he call
For drink, till "his pence were gone."
Drink, drink, drink,
From morning until night!
Drink, drink, drink,
By the glare of bright gaslight.
Oh! fearful sight to see,
And a dreadful thought to think,
That man, who should rule, a slave should be
To that fearful demon, drink.
Drink, drink, drink,
Till power of sense is gone,
Drink, drink, drink,
Till it's of health and wealth both shorn;
Beer, brandy, gin and rum,
Rum, brandy, gin and beer,
Till the glorious form of manhood's lost
In the beast that you now appear!
Oh! men with thoughtful minds,
Oh! men with a reason fair,
Tread not in the paths that drunkards go—
From demon drink, stand clear.
Drink, drink, drink,
Both in slums and great highway,
Is a curse that we too often meet
In our walks by night or day.
But why do I thus depict
That fell demon of the soul?
I do but so that my fellow men
Themselves from drink control.
Themselves from drink control,
Because of the scenes we see!
Oh, God! to think that man should seek
In drink his misery!
Drink, drink, drink,
But soon the time will come,
And what will be the end? a soul that's lost,
A drunkard's wretched home
Where sorrow is found, and mark the cost—
Neither victuals, fire, or light
With a starving wife near the close of life
To meet the drunkard's sight!
Drink, drink, drink,
From morning until night,
Drink, drink, drink,
'Tis the drunkard's sole delight.
Beer, brandy, gin, and rum,
Rum, brandy, gin, and beer,
Till his health is gone and his wealth as well,
For the demon nought will spare.
Drink, drink, drink,
In mansion as well as in cot,
'Tis drink, drink, drink,
With the highest and lowest sot;
While toiling thousands sleep
Their rest of calm content,
In gilded palaces round about,
The night's in riot spent.
Oh! that the world would shun,
That demon in form of drink;
And would reason within themselves
And from its presence shrink!
Oh! how might the soul of wayward man,
Rejoice in freedom then—
And be better far in health and wealth—
And better far as men.
Oh! but that men would see,
The sorrow that drink entails!
The orphan's cry and the madman's shout,
As well the widow's wails.
A curse to body, as well as soul,
Sends thousands to their grave;
And makes of Man, God's noblest work,
A low dejected slave.