The Use and Need of the Life of Carrie A. Nation [130]
of Hell,"
But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign,
And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
I think of that night, in the garden alone,
When whispering you told me your heart was my own,
That your love in the future should faithfully be,
Unshared by another, kept only for me.
Oh sweet to my soul is the memory still,
Of the lips that met mine when they murmured "I will,"
But now to their pleasure no more I incline,
For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
O, John! How it crushed me when first in your face,
The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "Disgrace,"
And turned me in silence and tears from that breath,
All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death.
It shattered the hopes I had cherished to last,
It darkened the future and clouded the past,
It shattered my Idol and ruined the shrine,
For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
I loved you, O! dearer than language can tell,
And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well;
But the man of my love was far other than he
Who now from the "tap room" came reeling to me.
In manhood and honor, so noble and right,
His heart was so true and his genius so bright,
And his Soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine,
But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
You promised reform; but I trusted in vain;
Your pledge was but made to be broken again,
And the lover so false to his promises now,
Will not as a husband be true to his vow.
The word must be spoken that bids you depart,
Though the effort to speak it would shatter my heart,
Though in silence with blighted affections I pine,
Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain,
Go fan it with prayer, till it kindle again,
Resolved, "God helping," in future to be
From wine and its follies unshackled and free.
And when you have conquered this foe of your Soul,
In manhood and honor beyond its control,
This heart will again beat responsive to thine,
And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
--Unknown.
WAR AMONG THE POETS.
From the Royal Arch News, the warhorse of the booze hoodlums,
the snapdragon of the jungle, the siren of Hades.
"The Lips that Touch Liquor Shall Never Touch Mine," so sings--
Miss Cora Vere, who writes jingle for the Anti-Saloon press, and this is
the reply that the R. A. News would make:
The lips that touch liquor don't hanker to touch
The lips of a maiden like you--not much!
If a man--not a milksop--should happened to wed
A creature like you, he had better be dead;
For never a moment of peace would he see
Unless he would bow to your every decree,
If he smoked a cigar, or drank beer, you would make
A hell of his home, and perhaps you would break
Into court and denounce him, in search of divorce,
And fools would uphold you, as matter of course.
Perhaps, like the Nation, a hatchet you'd take
And his bottles of beer and cigar-boxes break,
And get your name blazoned in all of the papers,
By your rowdydow talk and unwomanly capers,
No! the lips that touch liquor don't hanker to touch
The lips of a female like you are--not much!
I am not a poet myself but I am fortunate in having a friend that
is, so I called on him to meet this antagonist with a nobler steel, and
behold the defeat of this champion of a dying cause:
AN AMERICAN COUNTESS, OR LADY VERE.
"The lips that touch liquor, shall never touch mine;"
The meaning is clear, the sense is divine,
Bespeaks a clear head, an unsullied heart--
A fortune from which no sane man would part.
O, God! give us more of such women, we pray,
Then slop-pots of whisky we'd urge to the fray.
The hatchets of "Carrie," and Cora Vere,
Would knock out the spigots and bungs of whisky.
An army like those would drive them pell-mell;
For safety they'd Hazen, and think they did well
To escape from the jury of women turned loose
Who have drank to its dregs the damnation
But they come to me now with the bacchanal sign,
And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
I think of that night, in the garden alone,
When whispering you told me your heart was my own,
That your love in the future should faithfully be,
Unshared by another, kept only for me.
Oh sweet to my soul is the memory still,
Of the lips that met mine when they murmured "I will,"
But now to their pleasure no more I incline,
For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
O, John! How it crushed me when first in your face,
The pen of the "Rum Fiend" had written "Disgrace,"
And turned me in silence and tears from that breath,
All poisoned and foul from the chalice of death.
It shattered the hopes I had cherished to last,
It darkened the future and clouded the past,
It shattered my Idol and ruined the shrine,
For the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
I loved you, O! dearer than language can tell,
And you saw it, you proved it, you knew it too well;
But the man of my love was far other than he
Who now from the "tap room" came reeling to me.
In manhood and honor, so noble and right,
His heart was so true and his genius so bright,
And his Soul was unstained, unpolluted by wine,
But the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
You promised reform; but I trusted in vain;
Your pledge was but made to be broken again,
And the lover so false to his promises now,
Will not as a husband be true to his vow.
The word must be spoken that bids you depart,
Though the effort to speak it would shatter my heart,
Though in silence with blighted affections I pine,
Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain,
Go fan it with prayer, till it kindle again,
Resolved, "God helping," in future to be
From wine and its follies unshackled and free.
And when you have conquered this foe of your Soul,
In manhood and honor beyond its control,
This heart will again beat responsive to thine,
And the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine.
--Unknown.
WAR AMONG THE POETS.
From the Royal Arch News, the warhorse of the booze hoodlums,
the snapdragon of the jungle, the siren of Hades.
"The Lips that Touch Liquor Shall Never Touch Mine," so sings--
Miss Cora Vere, who writes jingle for the Anti-Saloon press, and this is
the reply that the R. A. News would make:
The lips that touch liquor don't hanker to touch
The lips of a maiden like you--not much!
If a man--not a milksop--should happened to wed
A creature like you, he had better be dead;
For never a moment of peace would he see
Unless he would bow to your every decree,
If he smoked a cigar, or drank beer, you would make
A hell of his home, and perhaps you would break
Into court and denounce him, in search of divorce,
And fools would uphold you, as matter of course.
Perhaps, like the Nation, a hatchet you'd take
And his bottles of beer and cigar-boxes break,
And get your name blazoned in all of the papers,
By your rowdydow talk and unwomanly capers,
No! the lips that touch liquor don't hanker to touch
The lips of a female like you are--not much!
I am not a poet myself but I am fortunate in having a friend that
is, so I called on him to meet this antagonist with a nobler steel, and
behold the defeat of this champion of a dying cause:
AN AMERICAN COUNTESS, OR LADY VERE.
"The lips that touch liquor, shall never touch mine;"
The meaning is clear, the sense is divine,
Bespeaks a clear head, an unsullied heart--
A fortune from which no sane man would part.
O, God! give us more of such women, we pray,
Then slop-pots of whisky we'd urge to the fray.
The hatchets of "Carrie," and Cora Vere,
Would knock out the spigots and bungs of whisky.
An army like those would drive them pell-mell;
For safety they'd Hazen, and think they did well
To escape from the jury of women turned loose
Who have drank to its dregs the damnation