Poems (Chitwood)/The Temperance Army

THE TEMPERANCE ARMY.

Not with the cannon's thunder,
Not with the gleaming spear,
Not with the bomb-shell's booming,
And the war-cry loud and clear;
Not to the sound of music,
Nor to the beat of the drum—
We come not to the battle
As angered warriors come.

We come with strong hearts throbbing
For the cause of Truth and Right—
'Tis a holy watchword, sounding
From heart to heart to-night;
To whisper of hope to the saddened,
To lift to the light the weak,
To call the degraded, Brother,
To brighten the haggard check.

Death! death! to the crested serpent!
War! war! on the curse of rum!
From mountain to valley the watchword
Repeat, till our lips are dumb.
Follow the trail of the monster,
Track him through forest and glen,
Hunt him wherever he hideth—
Stab him to death in his den!

Hath he not murdered our mothers,
Brought their gray locks to the tomb?
Hath he not murdered our brothers,
Yet in their manhood's bloom?
Hath he not coiled on our hearthstones,
Hissing with Upas breath?—
On! on to the warfare, brothers!
Nor cease till he writhes in death.

Arm for the battle of glory!
Strike for the cause of Truth!
Fathers, with locks so hoary,
Sons, in the bloom of youth.
Mothers, and sisters, and daughters,
With your prayers and blessings, come!
Death! death! wherever he lurketh,
To the serpent whose name is Rum!