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If I'm design'd you lordling's slave.
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will or pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?
Yet let not that too much, my Son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the lest:
The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompence
To comfort those that mourn.
Death, the poor man's dearest friend.
The kindest and the best,
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest.
The Great, the Wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh! a blest relief to those
That weary laden mourn.
