Hope for a son was now for ever past,
He was the first John Dighton and the last;
His stomach fail’d, his case the doctor knew,
But said, “he still might hold a year or two.”
“No more!” he said; “but why should I complain?
A life of doubt must be a life of pain:
Could I be sure - but why should I despair?
I’m sure my conduct has been just and fair;
In youth, indeed, I had a wicked will,
But I repented, and have sorrow still: