Ah! who, in this lazerhouse pent,
His lone wailings sends up to the skies?
'Tis the Man whose young prime was mispent;
'Tis he who so bitterly sighs.
2
His Youth, sunk in profligate waste,
Lest no Comforts Life's evening to cheer;
He must only it's bitterness taste,
No Friend, no kind relative near.
His Children by want forc'd to roam,