  Behold the Moloch of our Pagan days, The Bacchic God, whom all his votaries praise; For “Io Bacchus” is a modern hymn, Chanted in praise of drink ’midst festive din. Enshrined in radiance ’midst the hotels’ blaze— Or, where the drink-shop, with its beaming light, Attracts the moth-like worshippers at night— The sacrificial victims never fail, With gait unsteady, and with features pale— Still they come on; nor sex nor age is spared, Recruits by thousands easily are snared; Here comes the husband, with unsteady tread, And offers up for drink his children’s bread; His weary wife soon learns to follow in, And drown her wretchedness in draughts of gin; The starving children, outcast and forlorn, From Virtue’s path at once are quickly torn. Hence, from this nursery of sin and grief, We get the outcast woman and cunning thief; And the first lessons of the murderer’s sin Are taught in brawls amidst the tavern’s din. Moloch of drink! to thee are offered still Youth, beauty, fortune, science, art, and skill; Thousands of votaries drink thy poisoned cup, And health, strength, life are freely offered up In thy fell service. Life-blood still is poured In new libations—neither plague nor sword Obtains its victims, in the town or field, In such abundance as thy altars yield. “The cheerful cup, the drinking cup, goes round!’ Convivial spirits gladly hail the sound. See here, in wretched misery, crawls along The shadow of a man once hale and strong, At one time wealthy—held in high esteem; He loved, and was beloved—his upright mien And all the train of curses following sin. Then farewell heaven and friends, and peaceful life, And welcome squalor, penury, and strife; His once-loved partner learns from him to shrink, Her life a martyrdom, her murderer Drink! His son and daughter—God in heaven to be The cause of such great crime and misery! The girl, an outcast, walks the midnight street; The boy skulks, trembling, ’fore policeman’s feet. “In festive houses festive cups go round!” Widows and orphans shudder at the sound. A death-knell tolls in every drinking song, To some most heedless ’midst the drinking throng. Ah! when the nations suffer, is it well To wreath with flowers the portal of their hell? When tens of thousands perish by the cup. For neighbour’s sake, for God’s sake, give it up! Its use is lawful, let its disuse be Heaven’s key for thee and thousands—Charity. Not blasting fire from heaven so surely kills, As burning draughts which flow from Bacchic rills. See nations fall, as oaks by lightning stroke, Their glories rivened, and their manhood broke. Britain! “the Kafirs” curse before they die, The cup—their poison, and thy infamy— In Afric’s land are riveted new chains, And freedom flies when drunkenness remains. Alex. Wilmot. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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