ode, sacred to the memory of mrs. oswald of auchencruive

dweller in yon dungeon dark,

hangman of creation! mark,

who in widow-weeds appears,

laden with unhonour'd years,

noosing with care a bursting purse,

baited with many a deadly curse?

strophe

view the wither'd beldam's face;

can thy keen inspection trace

aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace?

note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows;

pity's flood there never rose,

see these hands ne'er stretched to save,

hands that took, but never gave:

keeper of mammon's iron chest,

lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest,

she goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!