Had passed himself off as an angel of light;
For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stole
Unseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!
Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellow
That lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—
And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,
His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!
’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,
And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.
In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,