  There aint no God! Coz if there were— My boy what's under foreign sod Would be alive, and here: Instead of which young William Porter What never listed when he orter— Has his farm; And braunges yonder safe away from harm. Poor lad!—he went— I can't forgit that night— While Porter laughed him outer sight; Now—he is spent: Porter's all right. What does he care? He's thinking of another farm, Instead of laying in some ditch He's rich! And folk'll gallop at his nod. I say it! Dost hear me ... Thou? There aint no God! |
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