But what will be the end?

Your conscience soon will be so seared,

You’ll want no other friend.

Chief of the comforts you enjoy,

What comfort now you take.

When you’re deprived of these, how sad,

Gloomy and desolate.

Why thus? Your nerves are all unstrung;

You’re almost ruined now.

Does patience have her perfect work,

While thus you break each vow?

When worn with toil, how soon you seek

Your coffee, rum, or tea;

When trouble comes, these are your gods,

To which for help you flee.

Another, all his senses gone,

When giving up his quid,

In irritation mourns his lot,

From him all good seems hid.

The poisonous weed, the deadly drink

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