Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/27

 

Hark! hark! he's counting, one, two, three:
Oh! that a human mind so sunk should be—
The ruling passion truly to the last—
As one by one, the worshipped coins are passed
Through his lean fingers, how their chink
Deep in his sordid soul doth sink.
That so employed a man should be
On the threshold of eternity!
Is there no better feeling that may part
This fatal passion from the old man's heart?
Alas! there is not—gold and gold alone
Can warm a Miser's heart, to all besides 'tis stone!
Still, still, he 's counting, still the old man kneels,
Till o'ertaxed, brain alike and reason reels,
Dispelled by sudden madness, darkness flies,
The Miser sees, but with a madman's eyes.
And now to him his gold appears
Bedewed with weeping orphans' tears;
And pass before him, one by one,
Good deeds that he might have done;
While actions, which he deemed unknown,
Are to his aching vision shown;
And blood, aye blood! all red and gory,
Help to fill the mind's mad story;
For if 'twere true, as rumour told,
In far off lands, the Miser sold
His fellow man, whose only sin,
Was being horn with darker skin!
He closed his eyes, 'twas all in vain,
There was the slave, the whip, the chain;