From the earliest glimmer of day
To the setting of every sun,
There's a chiming of bells that merrily tells
Of shame and of crime begun.
Ching!
Five cents for a glass of beer;
Ching!
Ten cents for a whisky straight.
And the devil stands near with a horrible leer
Like the wraith of a hideous fate.

And all through the wearisome night,
In noisome and smoke-tainted air,
Men are mixing their brains with horrible pains,
And branding their souls with despair.
Ching!
Ten cents for a glass of rye;
Ching!
Fifteen for a Bourbon sour,
While little babes cry because hunger is nigh
And tortures them hour after hour.

Oh, vain for the church bells to sound
The beautiful praises of Christ.
By a merrier chime ringing all of the time
Are the souls of our brothers enticed.
Ching!
Ten cents for a glass of wine;
Ching!
Fifteen for a bumper of rum;
While the desolate pine with a patience divine,
And the mourners with sorrow are dumb.

Then what though hard times be abroad,
And the gaunt form of Famine appear?
There is gold and to spare to buy whisky and care,
And enough to buy sorrow and beer.
Ching!
Ten cents for insanity's spell;
Ching!
Five cents for a bumper of woe—
'Tis a musical knell ringing souls down to hell,
And to frenzy and shame ere they go!