The Dying Drunkard

Stretch'd on a heap of straw--his bed!--
The dying drunkard lies;
His joyless wife supports his head,
And to console him tries:
His weeping children's love would ease
His spirit, but in vain:--
Their ill paid love destroys his peace;--
He'll never smile again.


His boon companions--where are they--
Who shared his heart and bowl?
They come not nigh, to charm away
The horrors from his soul.
What have gay friends to do with those
Who press the couch of pain?
And HE is rack'd with mortal throes;--
He'll never speak again.