What profits me tho’ I sud be
The lord o’ yonder castle gay;
Hev rooms in state ta imitate
The princely splendour of the day,
Fer what are all mi carved doors,
Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,
No art cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
Decked e’ costly costumes grand,
Like the Persian king o’ kings,
With diamond rings to deck mi hand:
Fer what wor all mi grand attire,
That fooils both envy and admire,
No gems cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
Thy worthy host, O millionaire,
Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;
My wealth increasing ivvery year.
For what wor all mi wealth to me,
Compared ta loisin immortalite,
Wealth cud not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
Even thee gert Persian Shah,
Mi subjects stand at mi command,
Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;
For what wor a despotic rule,
Wi all th’ world at my control,
All cud not save me from the grave.