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Year after year my stock it grew,
Upon the mountain did they feed;
—This lusty lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive:
And now I care not if we die,
Ten children, Sir! had I to feed,
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief,
They said I was a wealthy man ;
I sold a sheep as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
To see it melt like snow away!
Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopp'd,
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.
Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
To wicked deeds I was inclined,
I went my work about.
Oft-times I thought to run away;
Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
And of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one,
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock."
And this place our forefathers made for man!
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks
And this is their best cure! uncomforted