He built him a house
That would scarce hold a mouse,
Where he managed to live in a miserly way,
Till he said, “On my life,
I will take me a wife;
It is running a risk—but I think it will pay.”
Then he opened a store,
Whose fair, tempting door,
Led sure and direct to destruction’s broad way.
For liquor he sold,
To the young and the old,
To the poor and the wretched, and all who could pay.
A woman once came,
And in God’s holy name,
She prayed him his terrible traffic to stay,
That her husband might not
Be a poor drunken sot,
And spend all his wages for what would not pay.
Old Nicholas laughed,
As his whisky he quaffed,
And he said, “If your husband comes hither to-day,
I will sell him his dram,
And I don’t care a—clam
How you are supported if I get my pay.”
So he prospered in sin,
And continued to win
The wages of death in this terrible way,
Till a Constable’s raid
Put an end to his trade,
And closed up his business as well as the pay.
To church he then went,
With a pious intent
Of “getting religion”—as some people say—
For he said, “It comes cheap,
And costs nothing to keep,
And from close observation I think it will pay.”
But the tax and the tithe
Made old Nicholas writhe,
And he thought that “the plate” came too often his way;
So he soon fell from grace,
And made vacant his place,
For he said, “I perceive that religion don’t pay.”
Still striving to thrive,
And thriving to strive,
His attention was turned a political way;
But he could not decide
Which party or side
Would be the most likely to prosper or pay.
He was puzzled, and hence
He sat on the fence,
Prepared in an instant to jump either way;
But it fell to his fate
To jump just too late,
And he said in disgust, “This of all things don’t pay.”
Year passed after year,
And there did not appear
A spark of improvement in Nicholas Gray,
For his morals grew worse
With the weight of his purse,
As he managed to make his rascality pay.