The Ungrateful Son:
OR,
An Example of God's Justice upon the abuseful Disobedience of
a False-hearted and cruel Son to his Aged Father.
To the Tune of Kentish Miracle.
Licensed according to Order.
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OF an ungrateful Son,
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my purpose is to write,
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By whom a Father was undone,
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and clearly ruin'd quite:
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The Sequel of this Song
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will make it well appear,
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That those that do their Parents wrong,
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will feel God's Wrath severe.
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An ancient wealthy Man,
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near London lived indeed,
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Who at his Door reliev'd the Poor,
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and those that stood in need:
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But Troubles coming on,
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we find that ev'rywhere,
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Religious Men, not One in Ten,
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but persecuted were.
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And eke for Conscience sake,
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in Prison was likewise,
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Informers they made them their Prey,
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Romes Malice to suffice;
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Both Lands and Goods were seiz'd,
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no Pity they'd afford,
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For at that time 'twas thought a Crime,
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to serve the living Lord.
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This good man seeing then,
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how strange the things did run,
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He did depend, to find a Friend
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of his beloved Son;
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Therefore without delay,
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he call'd him out of hand,
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And did make o're his Goods and Store,
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likewise his House and Land.
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Said he, my Son be just,
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secure the same for me;
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I have no Friend that I can trust
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in these Affairs but thee:
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Dear Father, then said he,
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Your Will shall be obey'd,
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And if I wrong you let me see
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a just Example made.
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The old Man him believ'd,
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and turn'd o'er his Estate,
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But yet at last, e'er Three years past
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he did repent at last;
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For after turn of times,
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did Liberty afford.
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The old Man went with full intent,
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to have his Means restor'd.
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Then coming to the Gate,
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whereas his Son did dwell,
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It was one Evening something late,
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the very Truth to tell;
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The Servant let him in,
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and when he was set down,
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The Son with Anger did begin
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to knit his Brows and frown.
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The Father said, My Son,
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I come in hopes, that you
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Will now return the great Concern,
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which is my proper due:
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Ye Presbyterian Knave,
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said this Son, void of shame,
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I'll part with nothing that I have,
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be gone from whence ye came.
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The old Man then besought
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this Villain to forbear,
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I am your Father which hath brought
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you up with Cost and Care.
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But yet he rav'd the more,
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and Curses did repeat,
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At length he threw him out of Door,
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and kick'd him in the Street.
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His Eyes like Fountains flow,
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run down his Cheeks like Rain,
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His aged Hair as white as Snow,
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no Pity could obtain.
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O cruel wretched Son!
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the Father then reply'd,
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Consider well what thou hast done,
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God will pull down thy Pride.
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The bitter Winds did blow,
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the Skies was darkned quite,
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And for a Lodging where to go
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he did not know that Night;
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But Heaven did provide
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for him in that distress,
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He with a Farmer did reside,
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who did his Love express.
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But for this wicked Son,
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e'er Morning did appear,
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He quite besides his Wits did run,
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God's Wrath was so severe:
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Then for a Week or more,
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Father, Father, he cry'd,
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In frantick Fits besides his Wits,
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and then at length he dy'd.
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Thus for his Villany,
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God sent him to the Grave;
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O let these Lines a warning be,
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to all that Parents have;
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Be dutiful always,
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and do not Parents scorn,
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For those that do, in time may rue,
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they'd better ne'er been born.
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