Canst thou see my wasted frame,
And hear aloud sad Betsy’s name,
And still unmov’d remain;
Yes, thou canst hear it every day,
And to it oft attention pay:
Without a sigh or pain.

But when ye do in heaven appear,
My Father’s spirit will be there;
And hear thy awful doom.
Thy soul will then tormented be,
For dealing so unjust with me;
Who wither’d ere my bloom.

When virtuous souls are with the blest,
Thy guilty shade will find no rest;
But hurl’d to endless pain,
Were wicked man is made to know,
That Satan dealt the painful blow;
And will torment again.

No wealth can lull to rest my fears,
Or time dry up my falling tears;
Till I from life am flown:
Then do I hope once more to see,
My parents both along with me;
And they their Betsy own.