1 Why doth the man of riches grow To insolence and pride, To see his wealth and honours flow With every rising tide?
2 [Why doth he treat the poor with scorn, Made of the self-same clay, And boast as tho' his flesh was born Of better dust than they?]
3 Not all his treasures can procure His soul a short reprieve, Redeem from death one guilty hour, Or make his brother live.
4 [Life is a blessing can't be sold, The ransom is too high; Justice will ne'er be brib'd with gold That man may never die.]
5 He sees the brutish and the wise, The timorous and the brave, Quit their possessions, close their eyes, And hasten to the grave.
6 Yet 'tis his inward thought and pride,-- "My house shall ever stand; "And that my name may long abide, "I'll give it to my land."
7 Vain are his thoughts, his hopes are lost, How soon his memory dies! His name is written in the dust Where his own carcase lies.