I am the cannon king, behold! I perish on a throne of gold. With forest far and turret high, Renowned and rajah-rich am i. My father was and his before, With wealth we owe to war on war; But let no potentate be proud... There are no pockets in a shroud. By nature i am mild and kind, To gentleness and ruth inclined; And though the pheasants over-run My woods, i will not touch a gun. Yet while each monster that i forge Thunders destruction from its gorge. Death's whisper is, i vow, more loud... There are no pockets in a shroud. My time is short, my ships at sea Already seem like ghosts to me My millions mock me, i am poor As any beggar at my door. My vast dominion i resign, Six feet of earth to claim as mine, Brooding with shoulders bid bitter-bowed ...there are no pockets in a shroud. Dear god, let me purge pure my heart, And be of heaven's hope a part! Flinging my fortune's foul increase To fight for pity, love and peace. Oh that i could with healing fare, And pledged to poverty and prayer Cry high above the cringing crowd... "Ye fools! be not by mammon cowed... There are no pockets in a shroud."