The Rich Man and Lazarus
There was a man in ancient times,
The Scriptures doth inform us,
Whose pomp and grandeur and whose crimes
Were great and very numerous.
This rich man fared sumptuously each day,
And was dressed in purple fine linen,
He ate and drank, but scorned to pray,
And spent his day in singing.
A poor man lay at the rich man’s gate,
To help himself unable,
And there he lay to humbly wait
For the crumbs from his rich table.
But not one crumb would this happy cure (epicure)
Ever aye pretend to send him,
The dogs took pity and licked his sores,
More ready to befriend him.
This poor man died at the rich man’s gate,
Where angel bands attended,
Straightway to Abraham’s bosom flown,
Where all his sorrows ended.
This rich man died and was buried too,
But O his dreadful station,
With Abraham and Lazarus both in view
He landed in damnation.
He cried: O Father Abraham,
Send Lazarus with cold water,
For I’m tormented in these flames
With these tormenting tortures.
Says Abraham: Son, remember well,
You once did God inherit,
But now at last your doom’s in hell
Because you would not cherish.