Sung by: Neal Morris
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And the wild storm was dreadful
And . . . cold drifting sleet.
And the white pavement groans
'Neath the dull heavy shuffle
Of a poor drunkard's slow-moving feet.
Chorus: Oh, there's wine in the cup,
And its bold . . . bitter (?)
And it foams like a crest on the wave.
Where the man on its tide
Floats along like a bubble
O'er its foam to a wine-bibber's grave.
Dark is the night,
And the poor dying mother
Sorely grieves as long the moment drags.
And the poor helpless form
Of her child she does cover
With her poor scanty clothes made of rags.