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Poem by John Pierpont
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Come all ye young teetotallers— Come with us while we go To fight with old king Alcohol, A brave and mortal foe. Then rouse, my lads, then rouse ye up; Come forward every one; We'll banish far the poison cup, Nor stop till vict'ry's won. A hard old enemy is he, And brave and bold in fight; But labor hard—we'll soon be free, For God defends the right. Then rouse, my lads, &c. But though he may be brave and bold, We'll show what we can do; We're not the temp'rance men of old— We go for something new. Then rouse, my lads, &c. "We touch not, taste not, handle not," What can intoxicate; We'll live and die without a blot, And shun the drunkard's fate. Then rouse, my lads, &c. Grog men may laugh, and joke, and sneer, They laugh and tremble too; For when the boys take hold, they fear There's something then to do. Then rouse, my lads, &c. And now, my boys, since we've begun, The cause must never fall; Let each man bring some other one, And soon we'll have them all. Then rouse, my lads, &c.
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