In this month of December, with its festivities and excesses, let us pause to consider this verse from Sacred Songs, Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by John Imrie (1846-1902). A subscription salesman for the Canadian Presbyterian turned printer, the poet published the work in 1886 through his firm Imrie & Graham. 28 Colbourne Street, Toronto.
THE DRUNKARD'S FATE
For the drunkard there's no such place as "home,"
Though over the face of the earth he roam,
Till Death shall unfetter the drink-bound slave,
And he findeth "rest" in the silent grave;
His untimely death — "the wages of sin," —
Satan's reward for the worship of Gin!
He gave up his wife and his children dear
For the drink which he thought his heart could cheer;
But the more he drank the lower he sank,
From the highest grade to the lowest rank.
Till for shame, his name a bye-word became,
And he lost for ever his once fair name: —
For the pleasure of drink, which he loved so well,
He barter'd his soul to the lowest hell!
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