The Prediction Poem by Samuel Bamford

Babbler of St. Stephen's Hall
Hear a bard's prediction,
Ponder on his warning call,
Deem it not a fiction;
Sure the day and sure the doom,
Sure his prophesying,
Frightful horror, thickest gloom,
Darkeneth thy dying.

Hated as thy deeds have been,
Fearful be thy ending,
Mutes and mourners are not seen
Child nor wife attending;
Rend away the plume and pall,
Coffin, scarf, and shroud too,
* * * * * * * *
Not respected is thy life;
Die then, unlamented,
Pistol, dirk, or whetted knife,
Take thee unrepented;
Death shall pluck thee from thine height
Of unblessed ambition—
Gripe thee with resistless might,
And dash thee to perdition.