Though hearts were crushed and drunkards made.
It was something to him in after life,
When his daughter became a drunkard’s wife
And her hungry children cried for bread,
And trembled to hear their father’s tread.
Is it nothing for us to idly sleep
While the cohorts of death their vigils keep?
To gather the young and thoughtless in
And grind in our midst a grist of sin?
It is something, yes, all, for us to stand