Our brightest go down to death,
We cannot our dearest save;
And we dare not think of the judgment seat
That lieth beyond the grave.
Drink! drink! drink!
So many are licensed to sell,
Drink; you will surely find the house,
Whose guests find the way to hell.

Oh for the plighted band
Of those who are bound to save
Their fellow men from the fearful doom
That extends beyond the grave!
Alas! they are trying hard
To do, what they cannot do,
To wage a war to the uttermost,
And only hurt a few.

Bar, cellar, saloon,
Cellar, saloon and bar
Are swiftly, surely, doing their work
As those who in earnest are;
And the moderate drinker stands,
Kind, at the head of the way,
And opens the gate, with friendly hands,
Of the road that leads astray.

Of the road that leads astray,
And never will stop to think