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 THE RECLAIMED DRUNKARD'S SONG.

From the Gasometer.

Oh ! Whusky! I ha’e gi’en thee o’er I vow I ne’er can lo’e thee more; For, ah ! my heart grows sick and sore. When I think on the Whusky—oh ! We tak’ a drap to lichten care. But sure it brings us muckle mair: And pooches toom, an pantries bare ; A’ comes o’ drinkin’ Whusky—oh !

In peace an’ freen’ship we begin, But Whusky sune breeds strife an' din : An’ mony, mony, deadly sin We practise o’er the Whusky—oh ! We think a’e nicht’s to end it a’— Nicst day we’re fit for nocht ava; An' for a week, or part o' twa. We daddle at the Whusky—oh !

Syne rest, or sleep, we can get nane; But phrenzied wake, or fev'rish dream O' devils blue, to haul us hame. For drinkin' o' the Whusky—oh ! An' horrors waur than I can tell— Still haunt us like the fien's o' hell; It shurely was the Deevil's sel' That first distill'd the Whusky—oh !

But noo, the poo'r o' Whusky's gane; How chang'd ! how happy is the scene ! The body's hale,—the mind's serene,— Sin' I left aff the Whusky—oh ! Sae, for henceforth resolv'd I am TO SINK THE BRUTE, EXALT THE MAN; An' close adhere to reason's plan. Adieu, for aye, to Whusky—oh.