A “SMILE” is it, Hank Rowland, Ye invite me ter take, At the bar of Pete Moody, Jist for the old time sake, And ter keep me erwake? A smile of th’ distillation Of hell that is call’d Gin,— The nectar of the devils! The vile parent of sin, What many waller in?

I don’t like ter ’pear ’fensive, My friend Hank, but jist think The temptation ye set me When ye ax me ter drink! No, no! from it I shrink! Time war when a poor toper I reel’d erbout the place, A wretched victim of rum, That so many embrace Ter thar lastin’ disgrace!

Hank, I’ll tell ye a story What’s call’d ter my mind When I come any whar n’ar This great curse of mankind With which stomachs are lin’d! It makes me blush for the past, The ’nebriate I’ve been, When I think of the enemy— The inciter ter sin— They have christen’d “Tom Gin.”

When I war marri’d, Hank Rowland, A likelier young chap Ye couldn’t find anywhar This side Cumberland Gap, For I tuk no “night cap.” My wife, she war a Christian, And a true wife war she; And God rain’d down His blessin’s On Malinder and me, With a hand that war free.

She bore me three fine children— Two fair gals and a boy— Whose soft chirrupin’ voices Fill’d the cabin with joy And love without erloy. When the honeymoon pars’d And love seem’d ter grow cold, I stray’d down ter the tavern,— Thar squander’d my gold, And nerglected the fold—

Whar my sunny-ha’r’d treasurs Gather’d ’bout my wife’s side, As she teech’d ’em of the Lord Who on Calvary died, And for orphans pervide. As she told them of Heaven, And repeated that pra’r Of the Sevior of the world— So erquented with car’— They never saw me thar!

Hank Rowland, I’m ershem’d Ter admit it; but, still, It may do another good Ter warn him of what’ll kill, And I swow that I will; For, ye see, thar is many Jist like me ’round here Turnin’ erway from thar homes When the smiles diserpear, ’Cause thar wedded ter beer!

Wal, down here ter the tavern, As a matter of course I found many good fellers Who’d not any rermorse, And did not seem advarse Ter a toddy or a smoke, A yarn or a story, Of Ingen fights on the Plains, And conflicts quite gory, In sarch of mere glory.

Hank, them times war attractive, And I drank like the rest; As months pars’d it grew on me, Till I swigg’d with the best— Pour’d it down with a zest. Then reelin’ home late at night The little ones would creep Erway ter Merlinder’s room With thar mother ter weep In vain effort ter sleep!

As years pars’d I grew keerless— My farm went ter the duce— And I hurl’d at my treasures— Thinkin’ I had excuse— Vile curses and erbuse! One night I went home much later And prepar’d ter rertire; In my drink I upset the lamp— Then the house war afire, And my terror war dire!

I stagger’d out ter the yard And call’d for help. Ter late! They got out all my children But baby—little Kate— Who met a dreadful fate! The next mornin’, when sober’d, I found my infant dead,— Her body charr’d and blackened— Her death war on my head! My love for whisky fled?

Berside that rough pine coffin I knelt me down and wept, And register’d a vow thar, Whar little Katey slept, Hank Rowland, I have kept! ’Twar this: never ter touch it— This stuff they have nam’d Gin, What’s draggin’ others ter whar I, findin’ out my sin, Rerfus’d ter suck it in!

A smile is it, Hank Rowland, Ye invite me ter take, At the bar of Pete Moody, Jist for the old time sake, And ter keep me erwake? No, Hank, none of it for me! ’Twould make the engels groan Ter see me touch it. I pars! (Rather be cheng’d ter stone) Jist run the hand alone!