'Tis but a drop' the father said,
And gave it to his son;
But little did he think a work
Of death was then begun.
The 'drop' that lured him when the babe
Scarce lisped his father's name,
Planted a fatal appetite
Deep in his infant frame.
''T is but a drop,' the comrades cried,
In truant school-boy tone;
'It did not hurt us in our robes,
It will not now we're grown.'
And so they drank the mixture up-
That reeling, youthful band;
For each had learned to love the taste
From his own father's hand.
''T is but a drop,' the husband said,
While his poor wife stood by,
In famine, grief, and loneliness,
And raised th' imploring cry.
''T is but a drop-I'll drink it still-
'T will never injure me:
I always drink-so, madam, hush!
We never can agree.'
She wept, she pleaded, but in vain,
The hunger of her child,
And her own tatter'd dress-the wretch
Her mournful words revil'd.
He took the cup with fiend-like air,
And deep and long he drank;
Then dash'd it down, and on the earth
Insensible he sank.
''T is but a drop-I need it now,'
The staggering drunkard said;
'It was my food in infancy-
My meat, and drink, and bread.
A drop-a drop-oh, let me have,
'T will so refresh my soul!'
He took it-trembled-drank and died,
Grasping the fatal bowl.