Wal, down here ter the tavern, As a matter of course I found many good fellers Who’d not any rermorse, And did not seem advarse Ter a toddy or a smoke, A yarn or a story, Of Ingen fights on the Plains, And conflicts quite gory, In sarch of mere glory.
Hank, them times war attractive, And I drank like the rest; As months pars’d it grew on me, Till I swigg’d with the best— Pour’d it down with a zest. Then reelin’ home late at night The little ones would creep Erway ter Merlinder’s room With thar mother ter weep In vain effort ter sleep!
As years pars’d I grew keerless— My farm went ter the duce— And I hurl’d at my treasures— Thinkin’ I had excuse— Vile curses and erbuse! One night I went home much later And prepar’d ter rertire; In my drink I upset the lamp— Then the house war afire, And my terror war dire!
I stagger’d out ter the yard And call’d for help. Ter late! They got out all my children But baby—little Kate— Who met a dreadful fate! The next mornin’, when sober’d, I found my infant dead,— Her body charr’d and blackened— Her death war on my head! My love for whisky fled?
Berside that rough pine coffin I knelt me down and wept, And register’d a vow thar, Whar little Katey slept, Hank Rowland, I have kept! ’Twar this: never ter touch it— This stuff they have nam’d Gin, What’s draggin’ others ter whar I, findin’ out my sin, Rerfus’d ter suck it in!
A smile is it, Hank Rowland, Ye invite me ter take, At the bar of Pete Moody, Jist for the old time sake, And ter keep me erwake? No, Hank, none of it for me! ’Twould make the engels groan Ter see me touch it. I pars! (Rather be cheng’d ter stone) Jist run the hand alone!
The Sign of Joe Ball.
