Harry Hale.


Harry Hale us'd to sing with the lark in the spring
With the carol he greeted the sun;
And he furrow'd the lea with a heart full of glee,
Slumber'd well when his labour was done,
Harry Hale slumber'd well when his labour was done.

Now it chanced to betide, a relation who died
In the Indies, made Harry his heir;
By the magic of fate, here's a noble estate,
Makes we worth many thousands a year.

From youth until now, I have toil'd at the plough,
Drudg'd hard to obtain bread and cheese;
No longer I'll toil, like a slave of the soil,
I am rich, and will live at my case.

Rich plate, jewels fine, turtle soup, racy wine,
Powder'd footman, a carriage and four;
On a warm downy bed, Harry pillowed his head,
Soon forgot that he ever was poor.

But the nabob in wealth, was a bankrupt in health,
Growing lazy by living at ease;
He became very stout, was attack'd with the gout,
Lost the use of his limbs by his ease.

Thus he prov'd to his cost, that the blessing he lost.
By the riches he wrongly applied:
Was a treasure indeed, that no gold can exceed,
"Health is wealth," Harry said, while he died.