WELLSBORO AS A TEMPERANCE TOWN

OH Wellsboro’ isn’t at all like a pra’rie,
The hills round about it are lofty an’ ah’rary,
The bar-rooms are like the dhry sands of Sahara,—
There’s nothing to dhrink whin the Pilgrim is dhry.

There’s river an’ mountain,
There’s streamlet an’ fountain;
There’s springs beyond countin’
That niver run dhry.
But whin a man’s bate
Wid the drouth an’ the hate,
Sure he has no retrate
For a dhrop of ould rye.

This nate little town is the bate of all places
For rosy cheeked girls wid the brightest of faces.
Ye may dance, av ye like, wid the muses an’ graces—
But there’s nothing to dhrink whin the Pilgrim is dhry.

There’s praychers and taychers,
There’s lawyers an’ docthors;
There’s judges an’ procthors
All causes to thry.
But whin a man’s bate
Wid the dust an’ the hate,
He may walk off his fate
For a dhrop of ould rye.

Tis there ye may hear the swate thrush or the linnet,
Aich mornin’ at daylight they’re sure to begin it,
But divil the dhrop of good whiskey is in it—
There’s nothing to dhrink whin the Pilgrim is dhry.

Then give your bright wathers
To fishes an’ others,
Wid the herons an’ cranes that are wadin’ the shore.
Sure, a man is no porpus
To wather his corpus,
Whin he may have wine an’ good whiskey galore.