He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent, and pride,
Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died.
Did not the angels weep over the scene?
For he died a drunkard—and only sixteen,
Only sixteen.
Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne