  Men may say what they will Of the Author of Ill, And the wiles of the Devil that tempt them astray, But there’s something far worse— A more terrible curse— It is selling the Truth for the sake of the pay. Like Judas of old, For silver or gold, Man often has bartered his conscience away, Has walked in disguise, And has trafficked in lies, If the prospect was good that the business would pay. If a fortune is made By cheating in trade, It is seldom, if ever, men question the way; But they make it a rule That a man is a fool Who strives to make justice and honesty pay. An instance more clear Could never appear, Than was seen in the life of old Nicholas Gray, Who ne’er made a move, In religion or love, Unless he was sure that the venture would pay. He built him a house That would scarce hold a mouse, Where he managed to live in a miserly way, Till he said, “On my life, I will take me a wife; It is running a risk—but I think it will pay.” Then he opened a store, Whose fair, tempting door, Led sure and direct to destruction’s broad way. For liquor he sold, To the young and the old, To the poor and the wretched, and all who could pay. A woman once came, And in God’s holy name, She prayed him his terrible traffic to stay, That her husband might not Be a poor drunken sot, And spend all his wages for what would not pay. Old Nicholas laughed, As his whisky he quaffed, And he said, “If your husband comes hither to-day, I will sell him his dram, And I don’t care a—clam How you are supported if I get my pay.” So he prospered in sin, And continued to win The wages of death in this terrible way, Till a Constable’s raid Put an end to his trade, And closed up his business as well as the pay. To church he then went, With a pious intent Of “getting religion”—as some people say— For he said, “It comes cheap, And costs nothing to keep, And from close observation I think it will pay.” But the tax and the tithe Made old Nicholas writhe, And he thought that “the plate” came too often his way; So he soon fell from grace, And made vacant his place, For he said, “I perceive that religion don’t pay. Still striving to thrive, And thriving to strive, His attention was turned a political way; But he could not decide Which party or side Would be the most likely to prosper or pay. He was puzzled, and hence He sat on the fence, Prepared in an instant to jump either way; But it fell to his fate To jump just too late, And he said in disgust, “This of all things don’t pay.” Year passed after year, And there did not appear A spark of improvement in Nicholas Gray, For his morals grew worse With the weight of his purse, As he managed to make his rascality pay. At length he fell ill; So he drew up his will, Just in time to depart from his mansion of clay, And he said to old Death, With his last gasp of breath, “Don’t hunt for my soul, for I know it won’t pay. O, ’tis sad to rehearse, In prose or in verse, The faults and the follies that lead men astray. For gold is but dross, And a terrible loss, When conscience and manhood are given in pay. Then be not deceived, Though men have believed That ’tis lawful to sin in a general way, But stick to the right With all of your might, For Truth is eternal, and always will pay. |
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