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INTEMPERANCE.
There's a cup that maketh sadness,
Though of mirth it seems the friend;
To the brain it mounts in madness,
And in folly hath its end.
'Neath its sway the sailor reeleth,
Helpless, abject and forlorn;
All his good resolves it stealeth,
Every duty bids him scorn;
Gives the land-sharks power to fleece him,
All his hard-earned wages keep,
