Old Miles’ Song Poem by John Hartley

They may talk of pure love but its fleeting at best;
Let them ridicule gold if they will;
But money's the thing that has long stood the test,
And is longed for and sought after still.
Love must kick the balance against a full purse,
And you'll find if you live to four score,
That whativer your troubles the heaviest curse,
Is to drag on your life and be poor.

If you sigh after titles and long for high rank,
Let this be your aim night and day,
To increase the small balance you have at your bank,
And to honors' 't will soon point the way.
For you'll find that men bow to the glittering dross,
Whate'er its possessor may be;
And if obstacles rise they will help you across,
If you only can boast £. s. d.

See that poor man in rags, bending under his load,
He passes unnoticed along:
No one lends him a hand as he goes on his road,
He must toil as he can through the throng.
But if he was wealthy, how many would fly
To assist him and offer the hand;
But he's poor, so they leave him to toil or to die,
That's the rule in this Christian land.