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 Grief indeed is simulated, But the wealth is dissipated, And contention generated 'Mongst the consanguinity.

Death on good and bad attending, But to lots far different sending, Yet alike in never ending, Be it bliss or be it bale:

Be the death-mass celebrated, Or the friends in banquet sated, Nought is on the dead collated Save he be in mercy's pale.

There no time is for repenting, There no season for relenting, There, no place escape presenting For the sinner will remain.

Up thou strainest, down they chace thee, From the dark abyss they raise thee. And before the Judge they place thee, All will be, alas! in vain,

From love if thou hast swervéd Nor His Holy Mother servéd. Nor thy patron's aid deservéd Thee to shield in trouble's hour,