DEADLIER balls than North or South Throw from cannon's blazing mouth, Everywhere appal my sight— Three in number—golden, bright. "All that glitters is not gold," "Ah! I could a tale unfold" Of misery, waste, and want, and sin; We pass the balls and enter in. The counter-board seems to my eyes An altar reared for sacrifice. My heart would fail, my tongue would falter, To tell how on this horrid altar Are offered all that life requires To feed the ever-burning fires Of drink, which would for want of fuel, At times burn out, did not the cruel And greedy priest, who serves the altar, The offerings clutch, and lie, and palter, And cheat the victim of the dole With which he means to drown his soul In hell's hot fountains gushing near— "Spirits and Ales," dark words of fear; And so the groaning shelves are laden With spoils of man, wife, child, and maiden. The priest, who worships only self, Gloats o'er the offerings and the pelf. With heart that mourns and eye that weeps, I see him store the frowsy heaps With hand of iron and heart of stone, Brow of brass, and feeling none. Vampire-like, the blood he drains From the drunkard's burning veins. The whisky-shop absorbs his cash, The pawn-shop swallows down the trash Of household gear and wretched clothing. Ah! my soul is sick to loathing Of the sights, and sounds, and crimes Of these murder-tainted times, When a bath of blood has charms, And power to set a world in arms; And the bather may be bolder If a forty-ticket holder. Here's a man of good connection— Hang him, give him for dissection. What makes your wrath so high to mount? That old man keeps a bank account. Some journals have inspired a furor In many minds 'gainst judge and juror. Would huntsmen cease to lash and growl, "The many-headed monster's howl Would die," and common sense again Resume the sceptre and the rein. |