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 n'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.