And pray to Him, who gave your children breath,
They may not live to die this old man’s death,
In a dark dungeon he was close confined,
No friend to comfort, or to soothe his mind;
No child to cheer his loathsome dying bed,
But soon he rested with the silent dead,
Oh, ye who roll in chariots proud and gay,
Ye legal murderers! there will be a day,
When you shall leave all your riches behind,
A dwelling with the ever lost to find,