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 When we could shut Hans Breitmann up, And cage Gambrinus in; When wine should be a felony, And meet a doom severe; They've stultified our hope and pride; They've licensed cider and beer!

If children ill of typhoid lie, Let 'willing angels' take 'em; 'Twere better far they all should die Than brandy sound should make 'em. Let nursing mothers faint and droop For want of spiritual cheer— But ah! I dream; they've spoiled our scheme; They've licensed cider and beer!

What will befall our wicked State, That hath backslided thus?