Rumsellers’ Jeremiad

                              I.
          Ye sons of the nation, 
          Our sad lamentation, 
          And sorry narration,
Give ear to, and listen, and pity our lot;
          And ere you quit drinking, 
          Just halt ye a-thinking 
          How sadly we're sinking,
And losing the credit and money we've got.

                              II.
          The world is upsetting, 
          With fuming and fretting, 
          And we have failed getting
The freedom to peddle our brandy and gin;
          The Washington fellows
          Have gone from our cellars, 
          And leave us retailers
To mourn for the glorious days that have been.

                              III.
          The days when the story 
          Was fair of our glory, 
          We would that once more a
Bright image of them would come wandering back—
          When Parson and Deacon
          Thought not it would weaken 
          The force of their speaking
To take their Madeira and prime Cogniac.

                              IV.
          But oh! our bewailing 
          Is all unavailing;
          The fountain is failing
Of fortune, and honor, the source of our wealth;
          Our hardest old 'bruisers,'
          As cold-water cruisers, 
          Have gone to abuse us,
Unthankful for all we have done for their health.

                              V.
          They learned in the gutter 
          The worth of cold water, 
          And now they will mutter
Because we have given them rum for their bread—
          Forgetting in blindness,
          'Twas all from our kindness, 
          Lest haply they'd find nec-
Essity requiring the doctor in stead.

                              VI.
          Thus wicked malevolence,
          (Sent from the devil once,)
          All our benevolence
Misrepresenteth and midsunderstands;
          And Washington screechers,
          With Temperance preachers,
          Have risen to teach us
That law and the Gospel are different commands.

                              VII.
          They’d yelp as a dog would,
          To make their own jaw good,
          And prove twas’nt logwood
That old Doctor Paul made Timothy buy—
          That Nightsahde and alm,
          (Who th’ deil should tell ‘em
          That we  ever sell ‘em,)
Isn’t th’ juice of the grape, any way you can try.

                              VIII.
          And what, without joking,
          Is plaguy provoking,
          The chaps that are poking
This stuff in our ears, are the loafers we made;
          Oh, sad reformation!
          ‘Twill ruin the nation,
          Without disputation,
And what is more grievous, ‘twill ruin our trade!

                              IX.
          The keeping of whisky
          Has got to be risky,
          Because of these ‘pesky’
Reformed brandy-bottles, and water-washed jugs;
          The people are weary
          Of buying Madeira,
          Who foolishly fear a 
Decoction of dye-wood, and poisonous drugs.

                              X.
          Than Albany liquor,
          None ever sold quicker;
          Now ‘t makes a man sicker
Than ‘cat-nip’ to hear but the name of it said;
          For men, too, believing,
          Will feel a misgiving,
          That beer for the living
Should borrow its sweets from a bier for the dead!

                              XI.
          Alas! for our trading!
          Its glory is fading;
          The ‘Tee-to’s’ are spading
The grave of the traffic already nigh slain,
          And lest they perplex us
          And ever-more vex us,
          We’ll “line it for Texas,’
With what they have left us, and set up again.