Good people all I pray give ear
Unto the tale I tell;
’Tis form’d to gratify your mind,
And to instruct you well.

To caution men of riper years,
And to admonish youth;
Fiction may fill th’ improving page,
And use the voice of truth.

Tom Careless was a merry lad;
(And who will mirth despise?)
But he like many other wits,
More merry was than wise.

Tom was a working carpenter,
Yet while he plied his trade,
His tongue mov’d faster than his hands,
And less was done than said.

He told his tale, he crack’d his joke,
He was a perfect droll;
And of each jovial drinking set,
Was both the life and soul.

On such a character as this,
Some did with envy gaze;
While others wiser, saw much more
To pity than to praise.

For Tom with all his merriment,
That made such mighty rout,
Had taken vice and folly in,
And quite shut wisdom out.

He neither look’d, nor car’d, beyond
The present passing hour!
Alas! now see his sky o’ercast,
And storms begin to lour.

A burning fever seiz’d his frame!
Look how he pants for breath;
And in his vitals feels transfixt
Th’ envenomed dart of death.

He feels and shudders at the stroke,
He turns but keeps his pain;
He looks with eager eyes for help,
But human help is vain.

Now conscience from her slumber wakes,
And with a dismal cry,
Proclaims the vices of his life,
And summons him to die.

To die! to leave the present world,
To yield his vital breath!
To close his eyes on life, and tread
The dark, dark vale of death!

To see th’ uplifted stroke that must
His soul and body sever!
And then to lose the light of life
For ever and for ever!

’Twas more than human strength could bear
The agonizing strife,
Sunk his distracted spirits down
Close to the verge of life.

Then his fellow-workmen came,
With Careless to condole;
Who talk’d of former scenes of mirth,
To cheer his troubl’d soul.

But, ah! when conscience sorely smarts—
Whose spirit can endure?
When God inflicts the mighty wound—
What mortal hand can cure?

Outstretch’d, his flesh all trembling lies,
He heaves a mournful sigh;
Attempts to raise his aching head,
And ope’ his languid eye.

On the companions of his life,
He casts a dismal look;
And, lab’ring with conflicting thoughts,
Thus the sad silence broke:—

“Ah! ye do well to see a wretch,
Whose peace and health are fled;
Ye knew him once in festive scenes,
Now on his dying bed.

But, O, for ever from my mind
Hide ev’ry guilty joy;
Oor they’ve polluted all my life,
And will my soul destroy.

In sickness, pain, decay, and death,
What agonies ye bring!
All pointed with the envenom’d barb,
Of sin’s eternal sting.

—But have ye no sweet hope to give?
No comfort to supply?
Must I still languish and despair,
And then—ah! must I die?

How can my naked spirit stand
Before a righteous God?
Who, who, shall hide me from his eye,
Or shield me from his rod?

O what a load of guilt I feel!
My anguish who can tell?
My sins will shut me out of heav’n,
And sink me down to hell.

By all the mis’ries which I feel,
By all the wrath I dread;
By heav’ns just veng’ance soon to fall
On my devoted head;

I charge you to forsake your sins,
And to the Saviour fly:
O may he bless you while you live,
And save you when you die.

But as for me, can mercy come,
Call’d for with parting breath?”—
He said—and straight his quiv’ring lips,
For ever clos’d in death!