THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED.

With garments for sorrow torn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat by a new-made grave,

Bewailing her slaughtered dead —

Weep! weep! weep!

Tears of remorseful pain;

The sorrow that sorrows without a hope,

Is poured forth above the slain.

Drink! drink! drink!

It slayeth on every side,

Till the blue-eyed baby is fatherless,

And a desolate widow the bride.

O for a gleam of light

On the home, on the friendly hand,

That pours in kindness the burning draught

That maketh a desolate land.

Drink! drink! drink!

The horse-leech ever craves,

There are empty chairs in the desolate home,

And the earth swells with new-made graves.

Cellar, saloon, and bar,

Bar, cellar, saloon,

And a wasted life, and a hopeless death,

Is the tempted victim's doom

O men with the friendly treat!

O women with New Year's wine!

It is not liquor you're pouring out,

But your child's blood and mine,

Drink! drink! drink!

In joyous youthful prime,

Drink that marks out the downward road

To want and disease and crime

Drink in the lordly hall,

Pour out the blood-red wine,—

And grey hairs sorrow over the grave,

That is dug before its time

Drink for the darling son,

Till the softened brain goes mad,

And darkness falls on the father's life

Which is bound in the life of the lad.

Every unwilling slave

Standeth on the bedroom's brink,

But what will free the body and soul

That is enslaved by drink?

Bar, cellar, saloon,

Cellar, saloon and bar

Alas, that the demon of drink slays more

By far than the demon of war

Drink! drink! drink!

Till manhood and pride are gone,

Drink over the grave of self-respect,

And then in despair drink on.

Drink! drink! drink!

Drink at the fearful cost

Of knowing that though still cursed with life,

Yet hope is forever lost.

Our brightest go down to death,

We cannot our dearest save;

And we dare not think of the judgment seat

That lieth beyond the grave.

Drink! drink! drink!

So many are licensed to sell,

Drink; you will surely find the house,

Whose guests find the way to hell.

Oh for the plighted band

Of those who are bound to save

Their fellow men from the fearful doom

That extends beyond the grave!

Alas! they are trying hard

To do, what they cannot do,

To wage a war to the uttermost,

And only hurt a few.

Bar, cellar, saloon,

Cellar, saloon and bar

Are swiftly, surely, doing their work

As those who in earnest are;

And the moderate drinker stands,

Kind, at the head of the way,

And opens the gate, with friendly hands,

Of the road that leads astray.

Of the road that leads astray,

And never will stop to think

That the shroud is sewed, and the grave is dug,

For the lost by moderate drink;

And the banded are loath to strike,

They have friends on the other side,

And therefore “Hell hath enlarged herself”

And opened her mouth so wide

The strong and the brave are lost,

Do we keep the tender and fair?

Does the demon who strikes down fathers and sons,

All the daughters and sisters spare?

Bar cellar saloon

Cellar, saloon and bar,—

Oh! who will preach a new crusade,

Or join in this holy war?

With garments for sorrow torn,—

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat by a new made grave,

Bewailing over the dead

Weep! weep! weep!

How many will weep in vain?

How many will rise in a holy cause,

That the slayer may be slain?