Page:Andrew Lockhart - At the Bars of Memory.pdf/16

 

When he swells up his chest and raises his chin. And talks with a gusto that sounds like sin; And boasts of his valor and strength and all Save his yellow streak and his store of gall: You may think he's a hero of countless affrays. And a gallant knight of chivalric days, Who has humbled a million men, bold and bad. But it's only whisky that's talking, m'lad!

When he recites a wierd tale of conquests made. Of tests of arms and the cold, steel blade; Of escapades that make you shiver and shake As your spine grows as cold as a coiling snake: You may think he's a hero of some bloody war Where men were butchered and slaughtered galore; Where human life was a mere tinsel toy— But it's only whisky that's talking, m'boy!

For whisky talks above the din of the crowd In tones that are husky or falsetto loud: A hero it makes of the cowardly knave, And a creeping toad of the strong and brave; And the man of wealth is poor when he's drunk While the pauper counts bullion by the chunk: And virtue and goodness are lost in the bad— When whisky starts talking—and boasting—m'lad!  

Oh, give me the love of a little child, An' grant me the right to claim The fond, soft pats o' his chubby hands As he seeks to lisp my name!

Oh, give me the love of a little child, An' grant me the pow'r to say A prayer for him in the quiet night When his toys are laid away!

Oh, give me the love of a little child, When my eyes grow weak an' dim, An' the golden sun o' life sinks down O'er Eternity's purple rim!

Oh, give me the love of a little child. An' I'll prize it evermore When my lonely ship goes a-sailin' on For a far an' misty shore!