The Munition Maker

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 truth 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."