HE NEVER BLAMED THE BOOZLHe took a bottle up to bed,Drauk whisky hot all night;Drank cocktails in the moraine But never chuld get tightHe shivered in the evening And always had the blues, intil he took a bowl or two—But he never blamed the BoozeHis joints were full of rheumatism His appetite was slack;paia? between the shoulder*Chills ran down his back.He suffered with insomnia.At night he couldn’t snooze.He said it was the climate—But he never blamed the BoozeHis constitution was run down At least that's what he said;His legs were swelled each mornm* And he often had swelled head He tackled beer, wine, whiskv,And if they didn’t fuse He blamed it to dyspepsia—But he never blamed the BoozeHe said he couldn’t sleep at nigh;And always had bad dreams;And if he laid awake all night,Till early sunlight beams.He thought it was malaria,Alas! ’twas but a ruse;He blamed it onto everything—But he never blamed the Booze.His liver needed scraping,And his kidneys had the gout;He swallowed lots of bitters Till at last he cleaned them out.His legs were swelled with dropsy Till he had to cut his shoes,He blamed it to the doctor—But he never blamed the Booze.His clothes were getting seedy,His nose wfas getting red,Ills children always hungry,Himself not too well fed.His family he neglected,His wife he did abuse; lie blamed all her relations—But he never blamed the Booze./Then be had the tremens.And he tackled rats and snakes;First he had the fever,1 hen he had the shakes;At last he had a funeral,And the mourners had the blues;And the epitaph carved for him was— “He never blamed the Booze.*’—By Permission of Shan. T. Boy.